


The Star-Splitter

by pieandsouffles



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Angst, Diary/Journal, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Slow Build, Slurs, brief mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 57
Words: 68,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandsouffles/pseuds/pieandsouffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1969, and when Jim Kirk gets his draft letter in the mail, it feels like his death sentence has already been signed.  Fighting a war in which he doesn't believe, Jim finds something to fight for: he finds family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Need A Fix (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I try to keep my writing as historically accurate as possible, but you'll have to excuse a couple things in this fic - I've never been in the army, and it's sometimes hard to find info on what exactly service was like forty years ago. Also, I had the option to genderbend Uhura in this, and I chose not to. Go with me on this one. It's in the tags, but I'll add in another trigger warning for racial and sexual slurs - like I said, I try to keep things accurate, and language is no exception.
> 
> Title stolen from Robert Frost's "The Star-Splitter," a fabulous poem that you should all read, for it is integral to this piece and besides that, utterly beautiful.

The rain whispered on the soft earth of the compound, gathered near the small trenches and the baseboards of the living quarters.  The breeze answered as it drifted through the trees, brushing taro leaves against each other in a lullaby, scraping barbed wire against barbed wire in a discordant symphony.

The forest was silent.  The hornbills were huddled in the canopy, brushing drops off their crowns with impatience.  Even the frogs had forgotten how to sing.

He brushed rain-slicked hair back from his forehead and emerged from the cover of the palms that ringed the camp, boots squelching in the mud.  He could no longer distinguish the earth from the rest of him; his body was caked in it, and he tilted his head back as he crossed the open field, letting the rain wash the dirt from his eyes. 

The door to the bunker was hanging on one hinge, creaking slowly in the wind as rain gathered persistently just inside the entry.  He reached out his right hand to brush the door open, and the wood felt slimy under his fingertips.  Dead.

Stale beer, cigarette smoke, sweat, and grime – the smell was still there, but faint, in need of replenishment.  Ten beds, lined up five to a wall, the mattresses tinged light brown with dust from last night’s storm.  Water wound its way around the posts of each cot, seeping out under cracks in the wall, the same ones that let in rats, all those weeks ago. 

He paused next to the first bed on his left, let his fingers brush over the thin blanket that was crumpled in a heap at the bottom.  They hadn’t had time to clean up – they never did.  They never knew if they’d be coming back. 

He kept walking, all the way to the cot at the very end of the bunker, along the right-hand wall.  He sat down gingerly on the very edge of the ruined mattress and forced himself to look – to really _look_. 

To see the pin-up girls along the left-hand wall, the small picture frame that graced one of the two tables in the tiny building.  A pack of cards and a box of cigarettes lay forgotten next to the photograph – on the other table, a half-full ashtray looked forlorn. 

The bed next to him was made up perfectly, like it hadn’t been slept in.  Tears, unbidden, started to roll down his cheeks, and he didn’t bother to brush them away.  Nobody could say anything to him about them now. 

A strong gust blew the door open and he startled at a rustle of papers coming from underneath the cot.  Not really wishing to know and at once morbidly curious, he bent down to examine what had made the noise. 

It was a black leather-bound journal.  He started at it, wondering – all this time – why keep it so secret?  What was in there that the world didn’t need to know? 

And anyways, what was privacy amongst killers?  

He sat down on the bed that looked as if it had never been inhabited, opened the journal, and began to read.


	2. May 12, 1969

fuck. 

just

areyoufuckingkiddingme

what am I supposed to write here?

Pike said I should get a journal.  Write down my thoughts and feelings or something like that.  Talk about what’s going on in my day so that every time I feel myself slipping, I can look back and see my progress. 

That was two days ago. 

How does everything change so fast in just two days?

It wasn’t like this morning was anything special – the upstairs neighbors yelled at each other, like they always do, and the slammed door nearly broke one of my mugs, like it usually does.  I heard sirens three times before I finished my first cup of coffee.  Talked to customers at work, fixed up a nice bike.  And then I came home and there it was, sitting in the mail slot like it had every right to be there.

So what do you do, Pike?  How do you stick with it?  How am I not supposed to go back to it, now that I know – now that I know

I know.

I know I want to run away.  To Canada, to the fucking Arctic, I don’t care.  I’ll live in a cabin, maybe on the shore of a lake.  There’d be trout, and I could learn how to hunt.  I’d grow a beard, let my Chevy rust over and the tires go flat.    

I know I smashed every mug in my hovel of an apartment, until I couldn’t move for shards of porcelain on the off-white linoleum of the kitchen.  I walked out anyways, and the blood from my soles stained the dingy hardwood floors, and it felt good.  Every stab of pain was a reminder that I was here, that I existed, that I was alive.  I smoked my last pack of cigarettes, sucking down every one until I felt ash in my mouth and the stubs burned my fingertips.

I opened the window, and I screamed. 


	3. May 13, 1969

I stole the bike.  I went back to the shop this morning, took it, and took off.  What can they do to me now?  Put me in jail? The owner isn’t picking it up until tomorrow.  He’s never going to find out. 

I stole the bike, and I drove.  I drove out of the city, took the 580 to the 132, kept going until I got onto the 49, all the way up the 140.  I kept going until I couldn’t drive any more. 

The back roads lead you right up to the Domes, the Point.  Up there, the air smells pure – not like the smog of the city, not like the cigarette-tinged air of my apartment.  I bent down to feel the earth between my fingers, and I rubbed it against my skin. 

I wanted to become it. 

Could I do it?  Could I make a life for myself, out here?  I looked up at the sheer walls of the Domes, and I thought it seemed like their cragged faces were laughing, like they were telling me I couldn’t transcend time. 

I pulled my father’s watch from the front pocket of my leather jacket. 

“He was very brave,” she used to tell me.  “He sacrificed himself to save his platoon.  He died serving his country.  He died for a cause.” 

I clenched the watch a little harder, until the adjustment knobs on the side dug into my skin.  When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was be in a war.  Follow my father, beat down the red tide.  Better dead than red, they said, and I believed them, I believed them right up until the Gulf of Tonkin, the Tet Offensive, the war songs on our transistor radios.

‘Cause _when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out?_  

I knelt on the soft earth of Yosemite Valley, letting the pigments seep into my old Levis.  I dug my fingers into the ground, carving out a shallow hole, watching my fingernails fill up with dirt. 

I buried my father’s watch in the valley.  I figured it was about time I laid him to rest.  


	4. May 17, 1969

I called Pike three nights ago. 

I was so close to slipping up, so close to pulling out that case and stopping down at the Up and Up to pick up a gram or two.  I was so fucking close, so I did what they always told us to do, because I can’t be jacked up and going to training.  Basic training doesn’t allow for that kind of shit. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, to be calling at-”

“Hey, Pike.”  Even to me, my voice sounded wrecked. 

“Jim.  Hey, Jim, what’s going on?” I pictured him sitting up in bed, turning on the lamp that sat next to the phone and the alarm clock.  “I was worried, son, I hadn’t heard from you in-”

“It came.”

Silence.  He didn’t need to ask. 

“Fuck, Jim.”

“Yeah,” was all I could manage. 

“How-”

“I’m pretty fucked up, Pike.  Want to use.”

Another pause.  “Do you have any?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.  Can I tell you something?”

“I – yeah.  Yeah, okay.”

Pike breathed deeply – I heard his rattle through the receiver.  “When your father and I-”

“I don’t want to hear about my fucking father,” I said before I could stop myself, knuckles white on the phone. 

Pike took another steeling breath.  “When we were drafted, we were excited.  Thought it was gonna be like the great wars all over again – glory in battle, killing Nazis, but this time we’d be killing commies.  It wasn’t.  You know this war won’t be like that, either.” 

“No shit.” 

“You’ve got to have your senses, son, when you’re out there in the jungle.  Those red bastards’ll kill you as soon as look at you, and anybody can be a soldier over there.  It’s total war.  It’s dirty and cruel and like nothing you’ve ever experienced.  But you can’t be fucking up now, son.  It’s just gonna put you in a bad place once you’re issued your orders.” 

“I guess.”

“Now, son, I’m gonna ask something of you.  Do you think you can promise me something?”

I ran my hand through my hair and watched the red light from a traffic signal play on the wall of my living room. 

“What?”

“I want you to keep writing down everything that happens to you when you’re gone.” 

I laughed.  “Nobody wants to hear that shit, Pike, it’s already all over the television.” 

“I’m not asking you to write me a letter every day, son.  All I’m asking is that you document it.  You remember it.  If you don’t…”

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.  I heard glass breaking two floors down. 

“It’s easy for a man to go crazy out there, Jim.  Lose himself.  Lose sight of what’s really important.” 

“What is really important, Pike?” I asked, and my voice had disappeared to something lower than a whisper. 

“To remember what you’re fighting for.”

“What-” I swallowed past a lump in my throat, “what did you fight for?” 

“I fought for the man standing next to me.  For your father.  So get rid of that shit, son, because you can’t take care of your brothers if you can’t take care of yourself.” 

“Pike… what if… what if I don’t-”

“Jim.  Don’t talk that way.  Don’t ever fucking talk that way.”

“You’ve seen the vids, Pike.  You know.  They go over, a box comes back.” 

“Son,” he said, and I could hear it in his voice, the heavy sadness he gets when he’s remembering my dad.  “Your father died protecting his men.  He saved forty-seven lives that day.  He didn’t die for nothing.”

“It’s a no-win scenario, Pike.  I go over, I don’t come back, or I come back with gooks in the shadows.”

“Your father didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.  You’re gonna come back.  You’re gonna get through this, son, grow old and happy with twenty grandkids.  It’s gonna be okay.” 

“Okay,” I repeated, and fucked if I wasn’t crying. 

“Okay.”  


	5. May 23, 1969

I went out last night.  Had a few shots at O’Malley’s, a couple more at Prince.  Woke up this morning in a bed I didn’t recognize, next to a girl I didn’t know.  Got to work fifteen minutes late and started in on the engine of a Mustang – Johnny came over to work next to me, quiet, listening to the radio. 

“Hey man, how you doing?” he asked after about an hour of detail work. 

“You know,” I said. 

_And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can’t get to sleep?_

“My brother was sent out four months ago,” he said. 

_And night-time’s just a jungle dark and a barking M16?_

“Yeah?  How’s he doing?”

_And what’s this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?_

Johnny grunted as he tightened a valve.  “He ain’t comin’ back.” 

_God help me, I was only nineteen._

“God help the kid,” he said.  “He was only nineteen.”

God help me, Pike.  I’m only twenty-three.  


	6. May 27, 1969

Called Winona today. 

“When do you report?” She sounded tired.  She was always tired – Boeing set a tough schedule.  It wasn’t easy for women to begin with, but she had to work even harder to stay on payroll.  I felt an irrational, residual surge of anger towards her, for being so fucking absent.  I still remember her coming home late at night, when I was a kid, and turning away from the bruises on my arms.  Like she never fucking saw them.  She’d come out of the bedroom she shared with Frank the next morning, and there’d be bruises on her arms, too. 

“Two weeks.  Had my physical last week.  4A.  They’re pushing up the schedule to get us out – President’s ordered a surge, I guess.”  I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another.  It was only 4:00 and I’d nearly smoked a whole pack.  I need to cut back – there aren’t fucking minimarts in the bush. 

“Two weeks,” she repeated, voice devoid of emotion. 

Winona had never approved of my desire, as a kid, to join the army.  She looked at me and saw an empty coffin and an American flag, a phone call in a farmhouse with a toddler in her arms.  She found out about dad on my birthday. I was too fucking young to remember it - remember him.  I knew it made sense for her to disapprove of the military, what with my father, but I’d always thought she was a giant fucking hypocrite.  It wasn’t just any old airplane company that helped turn out World War II’s “Flying Fortresses.”  No, she was part of the fucking military-industrial complex, and now I’d been roped in, too. 

“Yep,” I said. 

“I-” she began, then stopped.  “Jim – I never wanted this for you.” 

“Doesn’t matter what you wanted,” I said, taking a drag on the cigarette.  “Fuck, doesn’t matter what I wanted.  It’s Uncle Sam.  Not like I can say no to him.” 

As if the name reminded her, she said, “Have you called-”

“No,” I cut her off.  “And I’m not going to.  He won’t care either way, if I come back in a box or with medals, he still won’t goddamn talk to me.”

“All right,” she said.  She sounded thin. 

“I should go,” I lied. 

“Okay.  Jim,” she added, “I know you’re gonna make him proud.” 

I ground my cigarette stub into my arm.  It hurt like hell, but it was like I found clarity for the first time since reading that fucking letter.  Fuck, Pike.  How did you do it?  Fucking Korea, staunching the blood?  How did you get through it when my father died in your fucking arms?  Do you lie awake at night, still smelling rust? 

_Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows_  
 _That too many people have died?_  
 _The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind_  
 _The answer is blowin' in the wind._


	7. May 31, 1969

You ever met a girl that just blew you off your fucking feet?  Not even that she’s hot, or anything.  I’ve seen plenty of girls that got me hard just thinking about what they looked like without clothes.  No, what I mean is a girl that can actually

Okay, here’s the thing.  I was fucking around downtown, drinking, whatever, ordinary fucking Saturday night – Al was bartending and my first two were on the house.  This pretty number was a couple seats down from me, leaning on the bar real heavy, two fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Shot of Jack, straight up,” she said to Al. 

I raised my hand.  “Her shot’s on me. I’ll have the same.”

He turned to me, grinning, and went to pour them out. 

“Her shot’s on her,” the girl said, turning her coal-black gaze on me and _damn_ was that hot. 

“Aw come on, you don’t even want to know my name?”

“I’m fine without it,” she said as Al set the glass down next to her right hand.  Her nails were painted candy apple red. 

My eyes swept over her body again – skin dark and glowing in the dim light of the bar, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, cheekbones that could cut steel.  She was wearing a t-shirt that showed the lean curves of her arms, and a pair of skin-tight jeans.

“It’s Jim,” I said, sliding off my barstool after draining the shot and moving to stand next to her.  “Jim Kirk.” 

She threw down her shot and rapped her knuckles on the bar.  Al poured her a second. 

“You really not gonna give me your name?”

She gave me the once-over.  “Uhura.” 

I was getting somewhere.  “Uhura.  That’s pretty.  What’s your last name?”

“That is my last name,” she said, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice now. 

“They don’t have first names where you come from?”

She laughed and tossed back her whiskey.  I watched the movement of her throat, and was half-hard almost instantly. 

I tried a different approach.  “You not from around here?”

“No.  South Carolina.” 

“Never been there.  Is it nice?”

“Not for a girl like me,” she said, grimacing slightly as Al gave her another shot without her request.

“Oh yeah?  What are you doing out here, then?”

She turned to me, fully, this time.  “Working my way up to Washington.”

“For school?”

Her lips tightened into a thin line.  “No.”

“Funny,” I said, trying desperately to keep it light – I got her talking to me, after all.  “I’m gonna be headed up to Washington in a week or so.  What’s taking you up there?”

She opened her mouth to respond when an arm wrapped around her waist from the other side. 

“Hey, baby,” said a deep voice, and I was instantly on edge.  “Wanna make a few bucks tonight?  Got some guys that would be desperate-”

“Hey asshole, fuck off,” I said, moving into his view.  The guy was huge, bulging muscles, square jaw, and too-small eyes. 

“Or what, kid?  Didn’t see her being too receptive to you.”

“ _She_ can make her own choices,” Uhura said, drinking the last of her Jack and sliding from her barstool to stand in between myself and the stranger.  “And now I’d like to ask you to kindly fuck off.”

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that, you fucking nigger!” he spat, and his hand was flying towards her face, but she caught his fist mere centimeters before it made contact with her skin.  The entire bar had fallen silent.

“That was rude,” she hissed, and twisted his wrist in a precise, calculated move.  His face contorted in pain and his body mass moved with it, but Uhura used that to her advantage, somehow managing to get one leg over the guy’s neck and flip him onto the ground with her fucking thighs.  His neck was trapped in between her legs and his face was starting to purple when I finally moved.

“Hey, Uhura.  Let him go, you’re gonna hurt him.” 

“Good,” she said, and kept squeezing.  The man started to sputter and gasp. 

“Uhura,” I repeated, laying one hand tentatively on her shoulder. 

She released him and stood, using the same, fluid motion.  Slamming a five on the counter, she turned to me. 

“Thanks for the drink.  Oh,” she added, looking back at me as she stepped away from the counter, “my name’s Nyota.  It was nice to meet you, Kirk.”  And she left.

“Can’t trust any of them fucking nigger bitches,” the guy said, staring after her.  “Fucking cunts.  Won’t put out for-”

I punched him, right across his neat-cut jawline.  He staggered backwards, dazed. 

“Fuck you, man.  She hasn’t got any obligation to put out for a racist pig.” 

Which is how I ended up bloodied and bruised ten minutes later, bleeding pretty hard from both my nostrils and sporting an intense split lip.  It was worth every fucking punch. 

I mean, fuck.  You ever met a girl like that?


	8. June 3, 1969

Army greens.  I don’t fucking understand the obsession with army greens.  Put on the uniform, walk down the street and people look at you like you’re some sort of goddamn hero.  Kids point and stare and you wanna just take the spud guns from their hands and smash them on the concrete, ask them if they’ve ever known someone who went off to war.  If they knew someone who came back. 

_Well, come on all of you, big strong men,  
Uncle Sam needs your help again._

I get free drinks, now, wearing them around town.  People don’t know if you’re enlisted or drafted, and you don’t fucking tell them about the letter that came in the mail because if you do, they’ll think you’re a coward. 

_Yeah, he's got himself in a terrible jam  
Way down yonder in Vietnam_

Every man’s responsibility to fight for his country, that’s what they say.  The transistor radio at work just keeps playing the songs, though, those wartime songs that make me glad I can’t wear my greens to work.  That I’ve still got time to dress in civvies and get fucked up.  Not that I need to get fucked up, here – they say there’ll be plenty of that once we get there. 

_So put down your books and pick up a gun,  
Gonna have a whole lotta fun. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the shortness of some of these! im hoping to post a new entry every day, unless it ends up being really long and takes me more than a day to write. i know ive got finals coming up so if any of you who are reading this have tests this week, good luck!


	9. June 5, 1969

Had a crazy night yesterday.   Getting fucked up on a Wednesday – who does that? 

It was Johnny’s brother’s wake.  He asked me along – probably figured I could use some fun.  They got his brother back in bits on Monday, had the funeral wrapped up and done before you could blink.  Six feet under, an American flag draped on his casket – closed all the fucking way. 

We went to O’Malleys, because that’s where you go for wakes – a good Irish pub.  I’m not sure how much whiskey I threw back before we started dancing, the whole goddamn family spinning and stomping their feet on the bare floor.  Everything blurred after my eighth.  I remember an arm around my shoulders, a body shaking with laughter as we left the bar.  I remember how the night felt – sticky, clinging to my skin until I couldn’t distinguish my sweat from the moisture in the air. 

There were hot hands on my waist, stubble against my chin, in a back alley a couple blocks from the pub.  I think I whispered something in an ear, something like “hey, we should go find a room,” and then there were starchy hotel sheets, an ugly rust and ochre duvet, hot breath all over my skin, a rough tongue licking the sweat off my chest.  A headrest that I grabbed as another body slammed into me, a cry I tried to muffle in the heavy silence of the dark room, shouting it into a pillow that smelled like sweat.  We left the lights off.  We didn’t want to see each other. 

When I woke up today, he was lying next to me – what was his name?  Patrick?  Brendan? – brown hair slick from the heat, unusual this early in June.  He didn’t wake up as I crept out from under the duvet, pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, and carried my shoes to the door.  If he heard me close the door behind me, he didn’t get up, didn’t ask me why I didn’t bother to stay. 

We all know protocol.  Even in San Francisco, you don’t say shit, don’t even look at each other, you just get up and go.  It’s not like Leo Laurence understands.  He’s not set to ship off to basic in a week.  You talk, you come out, and you lose your job, your friends, your family.  You’re a fucking pariah. 

So you don’t say anything.  You pretend like it never happened, even when all you can think about the next day is how it felt for him to hold you close.  You take your mind off it and think about a girl in your arms instead, warm and soft, her breasts the best goddamn things you’ve ever seen.  You don’t think about how it felt to take him into your mouth.  You go out the next night, find a girl, fuck her, leave her.  And if you’re thinking about him the whole time, you try hard not to say his name when you come.

So I left.  And as I walked home, his scent clung to my skin, musky and smelling almost earthy, like you could plant yourself in him, grow a home there.  I climbed onto a bus, hoping nobody else smelled him on me, hoping they couldn’t see the word _FAG_ inscribed on my forehead.  It felt like it belonged there, like a brand, shiny and stiff and tender and tight.  Comfortable.

Like home. 


	10. June 8, 1969

I was working on my morning cigarette when the radio announcer said we’d be having a meteor shower tonight.  I’d looked at my duffel bag, half-packed and thrown carelessly on the floor, and laughed.  Shipping off to Basic tomorrow, and here all the announcer can come up with is fucking meteor showers.  I wondered if they could see the shower in Vietnam.  If our boys would be watching the same stars tonight, under a canopy of palm fronds.  If the gooks looked at the stars, too.

_Grab your blankets and head to your local park!  The shower will begin at approximately 12:45 A.M., and is expected to last 45 minutes to an hour.  The overnight temperatures are going to be chilly, so it would be wise to pack a jacket._

I had flicked my cigarette out the window and watched the butt land on the sidewalk below, a couple inches away from the gutter than ran alongside the road.  Smoke was still curling from it as a man in a suit and tie unknowingly stepped on it with one of his leather shoes.  I wanted to call after him, ask him why he didn’t see the stub, why he couldn’t have just let it burn out by itself.   I wanted to see the stranger’s face, to know what he really looked like, and watch his eyes as he told me he didn’t see the smoke, didn’t see the way the ash was still hot and glowing.  Alive. 

I finished packing around 3 and wished I could go out for drinks, but it’s Sunday, and the bars are closed.  Instead, I sat down to take care of the rest of the beer that was still left in the fridge. 

Which is how I ended up where I am right now, at 12:30 A.M., next to the Doughboy statue in Golden Gate Park.  I don’t want to think about the grove that lies next to this meadow, don’t want to think about what it represents, what each tree stands for.  Don’t want to think about those sons of the Golden West. 

The Doughboy holds a laurel wreath, clenched in both hands, out in front of his chest.  Like a peace offering.  I’ve been staring at him for the better part of a half hour, trying to figure out what to write in this damn journal, trying to find the words. 

The moon is bright overhead, a waning crescent, but since last night was a half-moon, it’s still lighting up the ground pretty well.  I remember Kennedy’s speech back in ’61 – his goal that we would be on the moon before the decade was out.  Wouldn’t that be something, though?  To walk on the surface of another world?  The moon isn’t a planet, I guess, but – what if we did it?  If Apollo’s a success? 

“The Space Race” – that’s what they like to call it, but I sometimes wish they’d think bigger.  Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon – it’s always about the Soviets.  Rack up defense, military, pour money into space travel, but for what?  For the government to beat out another nation.  I don’t think that’s what we should be. 

I’d like to see a different America, I guess.  Maybe a different world.  One that sets aside differences, thaws out wars, opens their fucking eyes to what I’m seeing right now.  Looks up above and doesn’t see impending nuclear attack, or satellites placed by the commies, but something else entirely.

The swirls of the Milky Way, working their way around the crescent of the moon, its craters standing out against its brilliance, the faintest outline of its full shape darkening the space around it.  Ursa Major, standing on one skyline and Orion on the other.  Countless worlds, unexplored, some with alien races, I’m sure – not like the ones they show in Hollywood, green with one eye and antennae, but real intelligent alien life.  Not immoral barbarians, but cultured, a species we could learn something from. 

If we got our fucking heads out of the sand, maybe we could do it.  Put our money towards something that matters.  Work together, for once.  Not the fucking USSR against the free world, but humanity, for itself.  Give it two, three hundred years, and I’d bet every penny to my name that there’s going to be some sap wandering the stars with the same romantic ideals, the same delusions of galactic peace. 

I hope there is.  Sometimes the world just seems too small.  All I’ve ever wanted was to know the taste of stardust on my tongue.


	11. June 9, 1969

There was nobody to see me off today at the gate.  Not that I expected there to be, of course – unattached drifter, mother two states away, brother god knows where and probably couldn’t give less of a fuck.  I don’t pity myself, though – I saw at least two other recruits kissing their sweethearts goodbye, promising them they’d be home in just a few months before being shipped out.  It didn’t seem to calm the girls, who just stared at them, doe-eyes brimming with tears.  I tried not to throw up as I passed them to board the plane. 

The woman who was checking tickets raked her eyes over me as I handed her my boarding pass, eyes lingering on my pack. 

“Basic?” she asked, handing my ticket back to me. 

“What gave it away?”

“You’ve got the look,” she said, giving me a small smile. 

“And what’s that?” I asked, trying out my most charismatic Kirk smile. 

“Sad,” she said simply, and another woman waved me down the gangway. 

The plane was small, one of those 2-2 deals designed for short-range flights.  San Francisco to Seattle definitely qualified.  I stowed my bag in the overhead compartment above row 13, and gladly took my window seat. 

I was just nodding off when I heard a commotion coming from the aisle. 

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seat.” 

“I _had_ a seat, back there, in the bathroom with no windows-”

“Sir, please, we can’t allow you to remain in the bathroom during take-off, we ask-”

“Don’t care what you ask,” said a gruff voice from directly next to me, and I cracked my right eye just enough to see what was happening. 

The stewardess was shepherding a man back into his seat, which I belatedly realized was the one right next to mine.  He sat down heavily and immediately buckled his seat belt; I sat up, no longer feigning sleep.  I was too interested. 

“I might throw up on you,” he said, voice low and gravelly.  His hair was short, brown, buzzed in a military cut – like mine.  I figured he was probably about ten years older than me, and I turned to face him. 

“You know, I think these things are actually pretty safe.” 

I could practically feel his eye-roll, although I couldn’t see it, since he was busy tightening the strap on the seatbelt.  “Don’t pander to me, kid.  One crack in the hull and we can’t breathe, one stray bird into the propellers and we crash.  There’s only a few thousand things that could go wrong.”  He pulled out a flask and took a swig from it, then offered it to me.  I drank, and handed it back to him – bourbon, the good stuff.  Made sense, what with the accent.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

“Fort Lewis.”

I laughed.  “Yeah?  Me too, man.  Me fucking too.” 

He raised one eyebrow and passed the flask back to me. 

“Army?” he asked. 

“Yeah.  You?”

“Medical – training to be a field medic.  I was a surgeon, back in Georgia, but the wife took the whole damn country in the divorce.  I’ve got nothing left but my bones.”

“You do know that they transport us by air, right?”

He glared at me.  “You enlist?”

I laughed and turned my head to look out the window.  “Nah.”

He took another drink from the flask and held out his hand. 

“Leonard McCoy.” 

I grinned, and took it.  “Jim Kirk.”

We’ve been taking now for a good part of the plane flight – he just fell asleep about fifteen minutes ago.  They’ll be doing basic with the troops, then dividing for AIT – I can’t help but hope he’s assigned to my barracks.  It’d be nice to know someone, and Bones seems like the kid of friend I can get behind. 

I asked if I could call him Bones.  Leonard is too long to write out in this journal.  He said no, but I pressed until he agreed.  Called my smile “dangerous.” 

Yeah, I hope he’s with me. 


	12. June 11, 1969

I didn’t expect a warm welcome – far from it – but seeing as it’s just Reception Battalion, I guess shit hasn’t hit the fan yet.  They divided us up, into groups based on barracks, which makes sense, I guess.  I have to say that it isn’t very organized – I’m not sure if this base was designed for intensive BCT, and I don’t much care.  All I know is that there’s a war and the President wants us out in the jungle, not here in a fucking training facility. 

I’m not sure how many flew in, and I’m not sure I even care.  What with the varying numbers of troops being sent over, we can’t even be sure if we’re gonna stick with the guys in our barracks when it comes time for deployment, depending on our different MOS choices.  It’s nothing new, though – form the connection, get through the experience, move the fuck on. 

Bones and I went up to check-in, and the guy sitting there took one look at me, eyebrows furrowed, and glanced down at his list again. 

“Kirk?” he asked before I could be prompted. 

“Yes, sir, how-”

“I served with your father in Korea,” he said shortly, handing me a stack of clothes and an information sheet detailing what would be going down at RECBN and during BCT. 

I hesitated as Bones gave the man (his uniform marked him as one Captain Stevens) his name.  I didn’t recognize Stevens from Pike’s stories, but I felt bad for him – this guy hadn’t gotten out, hadn’t gone and lived his life away from the horrors of war, like Pike had.  Shit, though – one war wasn’t enough?

He gave Bones and me a long look before marking something down on our papers and sending us off to the reception area where we’d wait for the other recruits.  I grinned at Bones as we sat in uncomfortable metal chairs, hunched over and trying to remain inconspicuous. 

“So, what d’you think-” Bones began, when there was a slight disturbance at the entry. 

“Get _off_ me, I swear to _god_ , I’ll-”

I knew that voice. 

“What the hell?” Bones whispered as Nyota Uhura walked through the door, being accompanied by two men who bore the rank of Sergeant on their arms. 

“Unbelievable,” I breathed. 

“Gentlemen,” the Captain said, standing and leaning heavily on the table in front of him.  “Just what do you think you’re doing, bringing a woman onto my army base?”

“She says she’s got a letter, sir.  From the Assistant Attorney General, sir.”

The men around us started to snicker.  Uhura bristled. 

“Sir,” she said, standing in perfect military posture in front of Stevens’ desk and handing him a sealed envelope. 

Stevens took it in surprise, opened it, and scanned it.  His eyebrows just about disappeared into his hairline. 

“One toe, Private – one _toe_ – and you’re off my base.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’m afraid all I have are men’s uniforms, Private.”

“I’ll make do, sir.”

“You are not exempt from the haircut, either.” 

“Understood, sir.”

I marveled at her professionalism.  I had no fucking idea how she’d ended up here, but I was really fucking curious. 

“Dismissed, Private.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

She collected her things and turned smartly away from the desk, then finally spotted me and Bones. 

“You know this girl?” Bones asked as she walked towards us, a strange softness in her eyes.

“We met in a bar,” Uhura said, sitting down on my other side.  “He tried to pick me up, and then failed at defending my honor.  I can take care of myself,” she said. 

“You sure can,” I added, grinning at Uhura.  She smiled back.

“You know, I’ve only known the kid for half a day, but that sounds about right,” Bones said, sighing.

We hung out as the Captain briefed us on all the shit we can and can’t do here, then assigned us “battle buddies” – guess you can’t go walking around the base alone until you’re in like phase IV or V or some shit.  But the universe must’ve been smiling down at me or something, ‘cause Bones and I got assigned to each other (even though I’m pretty sure Stevens changed our assignments, after he knew who I was).  Uhura got a guy called Scott, whose accent could fucking butter toast it’s so thick, but he seems pretty nice.  I guess we’ll get to know him more, but I’m glad there’s someone watching out for her.  I know she can take care of herself, but that doesn’t excuse the actions of young, horny men. 

Those of us who hadn’t already shaved off our hair in prep for our service had theirs unceremoniously buzzed off.  Uhura shaved her head, no hesitation, just an iron visage and grim acceptance.  It was fucking impressive. 

We slept back in the barracks – Bones and I are bunking together – and had physicals today.  It’s paltry, their test – if you can’t run an 8.5 minute mile, you shouldn’t be in the army to begin with – but we all passed, anyways.  Uhura actually finished the fastest out of anyone, which shut up a few of the guys real fast. 

We had blood testing today, too, and are getting inoculations tomorrow – basically, no hard training yet.  It’s all been pretty easy, save the fire guard – but there’s no time to talk about that now.  The schedule is fucking strict, and the lights are going out in a couple minutes.  Bones is already half-asleep underneath me – he’s still not used to the time change, being from Georgia and all. 

It makes me wonder, though – how many more soldiers will I come across, that knew my dad?  How fucking far will I have to run before I can escape his fucking legacy?  None of it matters, out in the bush. 

None of it fucking matters.   


	13. June 19, 1969

Two years back, I got in this fight with a guy down at the waterfront.  He was all up on this girl, pretty little thing with long blonde hair in a cherry red dress, and I’d been watching them from where I was sitting on a bench, writing out some lyrics.  And this guy, his hands kept wandering down from her shoulders to her waist and he’d start to grab at her ass.  She kept telling him not to, and he listened to her the first couple times, seemed to think it was funny, like she was playing hard-to-get.  But then he did it again and she kinda batted at his arm, you know, swatted it, eyebrows drawn together and something like fear in her body language. 

I think the guy said something like, “c’mon babe, let’s get home, I wanna see what you look like in just those heels of yours,” and she tried to pull away.  It was pretty obvious that she didn’t want to be around him anymore, that he was making her uncomfortable.  I remember setting my notepad down next to me, getting up real slow so as not to alarm him. 

“Hey, man, leave her be,” I called out, turning to her.  “You all right?” I asked, and she nodded, hands smoothing over the front of her dress.  They were shaking, and I got so fucking mad as I turned back to her man – he couldn’t have been more than 22, but she looked barely 18. 

Next thing I knew, there was a fist colliding with the side of my face.  I don’t remember much after that, because I ended up with a pretty severe concussion and a couple fractured ribs.  What I do remember is that I hurt like hell for a couple days following, and the fight left bruises and a bone-deep ache throughout my body that was hard to shake for a couple of weeks.  I’d never felt bodily pain like that again – until Basic. 

Christ, I can barely move from my fucking bunk.  We get an hour of free time every night, right before lights out, and the most I can do is stare up at the ceiling and wish that I could disappear into my mattress.  They call the first week “hell week” for a good reason – anyone who can’t make it through this sure as hell isn’t cut out for what’s coming next.  Two more weeks or so before we’re out of Patriot Phase, and I don’t see how some of the guys are gonna make it – even I can follow orders when I need to, although I don’t always like it. 

Our Drill Sergeant isn’t any help either – he’s a fucking machine, and I’ve started to hate the sign of that fucking Smokey Bear hat.  Sometimes, when we’re feeling daring, we call him the Bear behind his back.  The guy looks like a bear, too – huge muscles, tons of hair, intimidating.  I’ll be happy to have some freedom again when this is over and we move on to White Phase.  Fucking Patriot Phase – that’s what America does, though.  Convinces you something’s patriotic when it’s really just the damn government exerting fucking physical and mental control over you.  Like a fucking letter at the front door.

I wish I was writing more often, I really do.  But this free hour is also time to spend with the other recruits – Bones most of all – but Uhura and her battle buddy as well. 

Speaking of which, Mr. fucking Scott.  We’ve taken to calling him Scotty, which he says hates, but we do it anyways, and he doesn’t stop us – so I think he’s secretly a bit pleased with the nickname.  As expected, he’s a first generation immigrant from Scotland – came over when he was just a kid and has somehow managed to hang onto a Scottish accent so thick it sounds like he’s just stepped off the boat.  He’s not too tall, pretty slim build, and I guess he couldn’t stand to shave his head because it’s in a neat buzz.  Uhura looks great with a shaved head – did I mention that already?

Bones and I take all our meals together, and he’s told me a bit more about himself.  I caught him writing a letter a couple nights ago, but since he hadn’t mentioned anyone in his life besides his bitch of an ex-wife, I got curious.

“Who are you writing to?” I asked him, peering down over the side of the bunk.  I’d called top as soon as we entered the barracks, which suited him just fine.  

“Nobody,” he said, shielding the paper with his back. 

“Not fair, Bones.”

“Life’s not fair,” he huffed, then tilted his head so I could see his profile.  “It’s to my daughter.” 

He’d never told me he had a daughter, and I said as much. 

“Her name’s Joanna,” he said, and it seemed like the few lines on his face, permanently etched there with his perpetual grumpiness, faded away.  “Jo for short.”

“How old is she?” I asked. 

“She just turned three,” he said, bowing his head again to disguise the sudden outpouring of emotion.

“I guess I thought you didn’t seem the type,” I said, honestly.

“Can’t go letting people think I’ve got a heart, now can I?” Bones said, grinning up at me. 

“Bones, you’ve got enough heart for the both of us,” I laughed, rolling over onto my back and leaving him to write his letter. 

He told me the next day over breakfast that he’d written about me to Jo.  I don’t know what that means or if it’s significant, but fuck if I didn’t almost cry. 

Uhura caught me writing the other night.  Since there’s personal shit in here that I definitely don’t want people to know about, I was going to make her promise not to tell, but she just offered to teach me shorthand.  Says that it’ll help the rate at which I can write things down – that I’ll be able to be more complete with my journaling.  I’m not even sure she was kidding when she told me I should keep track of it all, write a book at the end, when I get out.  I wanted to tell her the truth – that I won’t be coming back – but I just smiled and said, “Yeah.  Yeah, I guess I could.” 

Speaking of which, I’m still in the process of trying to figure out why she’s here.  Not that I mind, of course, because she’s going to be an amazing soldier, but – she’s a fucking girl.  Not even that, she’s a black girl, and that kind of shit just doesn’t happen.  She’s been tight-lipped about it, but I figure I can trade her.  Tit for tat, swapping secrets and all that. 

When they give us news, it’s never about the war – well, I mean, of course it is, but they don’t let us watch the programs that show the camera crews, running through the jungle beside the soldiers with their M16s loaded and shooting.  NASA’s saying the space project is getting close – Apollo?  Is that it?  - that next month, we’re going to launch.  And isn’t that just fucking crazy?  Guys in space, just like out of the sci-fi books.  Granted, of course, they don’t crash. 

I wonder what would happen if they did?  If the landing goes up in flames?  Would they read a speech?  Give them a metaphorical burial at sea?  These brave pioneers, reaching up for the stars, while we train in the rain, the mud, the dirt?  While soldiers disappear with nothing but an MIA?  A hollow casket, an American flag?  Would they read a poem for the astronauts, for those who dared to go where no one has gone before? 

_Merchants have multiplied more than the stars of heaven -_

_There is something moving in the dark just beyond the edge of our eyes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last two lines are from two separate poems written by Robert Bly, 1965.


	14. June 22, 1969

For the past week or so, training has actually been pretty boring.  There are 50 recruits in our barrack, 200 in our company, and we don’t really know any of the guys from the other barracks too well yet.  Our platoon has mostly stuck to itself – we’re comfortable, at least a bit, with each other. 

There’s been classroom work, which I didn’t expect.  They’re teaching us what they like to call “Army Core Values,” things which in reality seem like fucking common sense if they’re going to be giving us rifles and telling us to shoot at the first gooks we see.  LDRSHIP, that’s what the “values” spell out.  Fuck their values, they’ve had exactly one hour on race relations and how to _not_ be a racist asshole and have spent absolutely no time on how to treat women.  Like we won’t see ladies overseas.  Right. 

On the bright side, we’ve started unarmed combat training.  Hand-to-hand.  Which, I acknowledge, it probably sounds like I’m not very good at, but that’s not the case – sometimes I just have a hard time recognizing when to quit. 

They’ve got a tournament at the end of this week, for the guy who can champion his platoon.  All four barracks submit a man, and they fight it out to declare a victor.  I don’t think the winner gets anything, but I don’t really care.  Smokey’s been giving me a real fucking hard time – guess the Captain told him who I was, and suddenly it’s all too fucking much.  I’d like to show him the fuck up.

Scotty told me that Reilly told him about a guy over in the third platoon – my height, muscled, but still a slender build.  Great fighter, apparently. 

“Come on, man.  Doesn’t sound that hard, I can take him.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Uhura said, sitting down next to me at breakfast.  She still hasn’t told me anything more about her fucking recruitment letter, and it’s driving me up the wall with curiosity. 

“Aw come on, you’ve never even seen me fight,” I laughed, shoveling what looked like SPAM into my mouth.  Breakfasts aren’t savory. 

“Maybe not, but I’ve seen him,” she said, shrugging.  “He’s got that grace that you see sometimes in really experienced fighters – black belts, you know?  Incredible.” 

Scotty nodded sagely.  “Aye.  ‘S impressive,” he said through a large sip of coffee. 

“Well, when you all are finished being _killjoys-_ ”

Bones interrupted me, laughing a little too loudly for how fucking early it was. 

“Fuck you guys – Bones, I’ll bet you five bucks I can beat him.” 

Bones raised an eyebrow and held out his hand.  “Kid, you bet.”

“You have to make it to the finals first,” Uhura said.  “five bucks says you lose before then.”

“Do you really have so little faith?” I groaned, grinning. 

“I’ll take that,” Scotty said, shaking her hand with enthusiasm. 

“ _Thank you,_ Scotty.  Unbelievable,” I said to Bones, gathering up my tray.  “Thought the army would’ve taught you to be more loyal than that.”

He just shrugged.  “Goddamn value classes.  I’m a doctor, not a soldier.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Bones,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder on my way out. 

He just rolled his eyes and stabbed his eggs with his fork.  


	15. June 25, 1969

Remember when I said that thing about pain, a few entries ago?  Scratch that shit. 

There are bruises covering every inch of my goddamn body.  I’m sore in places where I didn’t know I even had muscles, but

something happened today. 

We’d spent the morning on Victory Tower – which, note to anyone who may be reading a _severely_ edited version of this in the future, you should _not_ join the army if you are afraid of heights – and the GFT fight was coming up in the afternoon.  Bones and I left the grounds together and headed to the canteen, where we met up with Uhura and Scotty.  Even though Uhura lost her bet that I wouldn’t get to the GFT finals, she sat down with us convinced as all hell that I wouldn’t be coming out of the fight with _tall dark and mysterious_ unscathed. 

“Darlin’, the man’s a ninja,” Bones said to Uhura, and it took me a minute to realize he was talking about me. 

“Aw, Bones, it makes me blush when you talk about me like that.” 

“Shut up, kid.  If he does beat you to a pulp, know that I ain’t patching you up.  I’ll let your cuts and bruises fester, for all I care-”

“You would never,” Uhura said, looking at Len with something like fondness in her eyes. 

“I cannae say he wouldn’t,” Scotty shrugged noncommittally. 

“Yeah,” I said, remembering a time earlier that day when Bones had stopped to help another soldier up after he had fallen on one of the ropes courses, checking him over carefully for injuries.  “You couldn’t let someone who was injured keep hurting if it was in your power to help, even if your life was at stake.  Admit it, you’re soft!”

“I don’t like suffering,” Bones said.  “Doesn’t matter whose it is.  Everybody’s got a right to live.” 

I didn’t have anything to say to that.  Some people deserve it.  To suffer.  Some people are truly evil.   

And that’s what I was thinking about, going into this dumb fight.  This stupid GFT fight that didn’t even matter – like I thought I could prove myself through a few well-placed punches, like I thought I could rework the clock. 

Most of our battalion was there, out on the field, ringed around the area where we’d be fighting – me and the stranger.  The lithe one, with the dark hair and the powerful hands. 

Bones clapped me once on the back, and he was

there.

Pale skin – so very, very pale, but free of blemishes and smooth; his cheekbones were cut ivory, sweeping back to the dark line of his hair.  It was brown, yet nearly black, and of course he hadn’t shaved his head because why would anyone want to get rid of hair that shone as his did, almost catching the sun through clouds?  He was my height, and my eyes traced the long lines of his legs, their slender shape emphasized even through regulation gear.  He was wearing the gray t-shirt they’d issued us on the first day of Basic, “ARMY” stamped in black letters across the front.  When I saw the slope of his neck, I knew I didn’t want to look at his face, or I’d be lost.  His Adam’s apple bobbed once as he swallowed, and I slowly, reluctantly, looked up. 

His eyes were the color of melted semi-sweet chocolate, and although his face bore cold, hard lines, his irises betrayed warmth, his pupils anticipation for the coming fight.  My gaze traced his eyebrows, dark and imposing, set in straight, stern lines; his nose; his lips, full and pink and slicked with the careful swipe of his tongue. 

I didn’t ever want to look away. 

“Jim,” Bones hissed, nudging me forward.  I strode forward with confidence I didn’t feel and stopped about ten feet from the man. 

“Hey,” I said, but my voice was strangled and about an octave and a half higher than normal. 

“Hello,” he replied, and although his voice was monotone, it sounded the way his eyes looked: full of feeling – in this case, anticipation. 

“Ready when you are,” I said, flashing him the patented Jim Kirk smile. 

He nodded, and I watched his body language tense as I made the first move, feinting right before coming in with a kick to his left side.  He deflected me easily and immediately countered with a right hook, which I ducked underneath and responded to with a jab to his stomach.  It caught him flush, and he recoiled slightly. 

Pressing my advantage, I tried for another kick, this time aimed at disabling one of his knees.  He dodged the kick, stepping aside as if it required very little thought, before landing his first blow on the side of my body, right below my ribcage. 

It _hurt_. 

I stepped up my game, trying to get closer to the man as I realized his fighting style was better accustomed to striking techniques.  I was more comfortable with grappling, using my opponent’s body weight against me; it was a helpful tactic against stronger opponents.  While I didn’t think he was necessarily stronger than me, it was clear he was a very talented fighter – Uhura hadn’t been wrong – and I needed to adapt accordingly to gain an edge. 

The fight became synchronized in a way I’ve never before experienced – not with a sparring partner at the gym, not with Sam, not with anyone.  We wove and ducked and sidestepped, accumulating bruises with every successful strike, dealing them out in turn.  Although the crowd had been cheering at the beginning, they had either fallen silent or I could not hear them – all that existed was me and him, and the dance our fighting had become. 

No, not a dance – chess.  It was like chess.  Strategy, the willingness to let one blow land in order to deal another, hopefully more damaging, strike.  Give and take, our bodies slowing but our moves becoming more calculated, precise, intent on disabling. 

It was beautiful. 

I darted in close after he hit me with a particularly nasty kick to my kidney, grasping his shoulders and forcing my foot between his, throwing him off-balance.  He swayed, went down, and as I was scrambling to put him in a hold, he did something to my leg, which was still wedged between his. 

Suddenly, I was on my back, grass pressing into the bare skin of my neck, trapped in an iron hold.  The man’s face loomed above me and his cheeks were flushed; I realized we were both breathing hard.  Worst, something else seemed to be _getting_ hard, and I needed him to get off me _right the fuck now_

I tapped gently on his leg and he released me, standing and brushing grass off his pants.  The noise of the crowd seemed to return to focus, and I heard cheering, shouted promises of debts to be paid. 

The man offered me his hand.  Surprised, I took it, and he helped me to my feet. 

“That was a good fight,” I said, smiling. 

“Indeed.”  There it was again, that undercurrent, a hidden melody in his voice, this time sounding like amusement. 

“Do it again sometime?” I pressed. 

“Perhaps,” he said, and the right corner of his mouth twitched up in an almost-smile.  He turned to leave. 

“Wait!” I called out.  “What’s your name?” 

He turned back to me and one of his eyebrows was raised, like he was surprised I thought to ask the question.  “I am Spock.” 

Now that I think about it, that is a weird name, but at the time all I could think was to say

“Hey, Spock.  I’m Jim.  Jim Kirk.  It was nice to meet you.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” he said, and I huffed in laughter at his formality as he turned away to regroup with his platoon. 

“That was incredible, Jim” Bones’ voice came from behind me.  “You were at it for nearly fifteen minutes.” 

“Hm,” I said, watching Spock’s retreating figure.  “He’s a good fighter.” 

“Good thing I put money on him to win, then,” Bones said, grinning. 

“You did not!” I gasped in mock horror as we walked back over to where our platoon was waiting. 

“’Fraid so,” he laughed. 

I forgave him for it, and we continued on with the rest of the day, but I did it with some kind of cavity in my chest.  Fighting against Spock was the first clarity I’d had in a really long time, the first time I’d allowed my mind to sleep, to work on instinct.  I wanted to feel it again, didn’t care if the sensation came with Spock’s fists and a bloodied nose.  Winona had always said I had a terrible sense of self-preservation – perhaps she was right.  No, she was definitely right, but that’s not the point. 

The point is that I keep thinking about the way his eyes seemed almost sad as he turned away from me, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop. 


	16. June 29, 1969

Nyota. Fucking.  Uhura. 

I can’t help but wonder if she’s entirely resistant to my charms, because it took me altogether too long to get it from her.  But I guess any girl that can swing a punch like her and score the physical fitness badge doesn’t have many soft spots to begin with. 

Bones and I had talked about it, of course, one night on fire guard. (Which, by the way, is a two-hour shift where battle buddies watch the barracks.  It’s left over from the old days, when they were still made of wood and the buildings were in danger of burning down or some bullshit like that.)

“Aw, come on,” I’d whispered.  “You’re not even a bit curious?”

Bones had shrugged.  “I’m just as interested as you, but I know to keep my nose out of where it doesn’t belong.”

“She’s our friend!  Shouldn’t we know if, I don’t know, she’s got someone higher up-”

“You kidding?” Bones snorted.  “She had a letter from the assistant Attorney General, but that doesn’t mean she’s got friends in high places.” 

“Well, what _do_ you think it is, then?”

“I think that when she’s ready to tell us, we’ll find out.  Until then, I don’t think it’s any of our goddamn business.”

“But-”

“Jim, I’m a doctor, not a detective.  I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m fairly confident she’s a better soldier than both of us and would have no issue beating your balls to a pulp-”

“Okay, okay!” I interrupted, wincing.  “I’ll drop it.”

And that had been the end of it, until today.  Scotty was the first of us brave enough to broach the subject over lunch, and Uhura just – shrugged. 

“I got arrested in Georgia.”

“I thought you were from the Carolinas?” I asked, confused.  

“I am.  I was… working.”

“What could you have been workin’ on, to get arrested?” Scotty said incredulously. 

She sighed and pushed her beans around her plate.  “I worked at a couple… demonstrations.  Got locked up more than once.  The last time, they gave me a choice: go to prison, or join the military.”

“I’m still confused,” I said.  “As a nurse, or something?”

She shook her head, but the movement was reluctant, small.  “No.  They… wanted me on the front lines.  They’d seen the videos, they… they knew I could fight.” 

“Girls don’t fight on the front lines, darlin’,” Bones said, brows furrowed.  “Too dangerous, too likely to distract the men.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” she asked, looking up to meet his eyes.  Hers were filled with a cold fury.  “They sent me here to break me.  They thought I wouldn’t make it through basic.  They think that, even if I do, I won’t be able to survive overseas.  I’ll go down in the first op, and the guys will let me.  Or I’ll get raped so many times I won’t have any fight left in me.” 

I found that, suddenly, I couldn’t speak. 

“Well, they’re wrong,” she said, the anger disappearing from her voice as her eyes dropped back to her plate.  “I’m going to survive it.  And when I come back, I’ll go to school on the GI bill, for linguistics.  I’ll live the life I’ve wanted, because I’ll have fought for my country, and I’ll have survived.”

And the weird thing?  I don’t doubt it for a second.  If anyone can survive in that hell hole of a war zone, it’s her.  It’s got to be her. 

We’ve started training with pugil sticks, carrying equipment, field stripping weapons, practicing putting on gas masks.  Weapons firing comes next week. 

I haven’t seen Spock in four days. 


	17. July 1, 1969

All the guys are looking forward to a day off on the fourth – the anticipation is fucking tangible.  We’ve all been away from booze for too long to be thinking about much else at this point, and thank god there are bars on this godforsaken base (even if we can’t visit them voluntarily until later on in training). 

The range is a really crowded place, and we can’t help but brush against a couple of other barracks groups as we train.  Smokey and the other drill sergeants sit it out on the sides, watching us work with the weapons experts, barking orders to stand up straighter, pull back our shoulders, watch the fucking recoil.  I’ve been looking for him, through the endless shouting and pepper of bullets hitting targets – nor not, in some cases.  And while I haven’t seen him, I’ve met a few of the guys who live in his barracks. 

Bones and I were headed back to the mess hall from the gallery and a couple of guys approached us.  They looked like battle buddies by the way they walked – almost synchronized, aware of each other’s movements at all times.

“Hey,” one of them called out – Asian, probably Japanese by the looks of him.  He and his buddy, a young, blond kid, rushed to catch us up.  “You Kirk?”

I nodded.  He wasn’t deterred. 

“I’m Hikaru Sulu, this is Pavel Chekov,” he said, gesturing to himself and the blond boy in turn.  "We just wanted to tell you, that fight-”

“It was amazing!” interjected Chekov, and I recognized a Russian accent. 

“Thanks,” I said.  Russians in the army?  What the hell was next?   

Hikaru grinned.  “You know, the guys would kill to see a rematch.”

“Well, maybe if they gave us any free time, I’d be up for it,” I said, plowing on resolutely to the mess. 

“All right, we’ll pass the message along,” Hikaru said, nudging Chekov so hard he winced. 

“Wait,” I said, stopping.  “Did he ask you to come find me?”

“Yes,” Chekov said simply.  “It was a good match.  Spock is a wery good fighter; none of the men in our barracks can take him and stay standing for more than two minutes.” 

His accent is, frankly, _incredibly_ strong. 

“What’s your deal with this guy, Jim?” Bones asked as we made it out of the mild heat and into the cafeteria.  Pavel and Hikaru vanished from our sides, probably to go sit with men from their barracks. 

“I don’t know,” I said, accepting a plate of beef and potatoes.  It was the truth – I didn’t know what it was that made me want to talk to Spock again.  It was just – there was something so orchestrated about the entire thing.  And it –

Bones looked at me as we walked over to a table that was housing Riley and Giotto, two men from our small firing group.  His shoulders were angled slightly towards my body, a sure sign that he was worrying about me. 

“I’m fine, Bones.  He was just – Hikaru was right.  It was a good fight.” 

“And it’s nothing more than that?” Bones asked.  Sometimes I wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. 

I shrugged as we set our trays down.  “What else is there, Doc?”

Bones huffed.  “I don’t know what goes on in that fool head of yours.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Bones, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” I said, starting to shovel potatoes into my mouth.

“Can’t believe you didn’t go to college,” he grumbled, but set into his meal as well.  It had been a trying morning, and we were going to be working just as hard that afternoon. 

And it felt wrong, you know?  For him and I to be on opposite sides of a fight.  He’s not the kind of guy I want to be up against.  He’s the kind of guy I want at my side, as we go into battle, M16s blazing, covering my six.  And I know it’s weird, we’ve spoken like fifteen fucking words to each other, but his eyes

his eyes were

a countenance more in sorrow than in anger?

his eyes were sad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *meows quietly* ugh I'm sorry, I've had training this past week and it's so exhausting I haven't even been blogging. Thanks for sticking with me, these should pick back up now! Also Jim/Shakespeare = OTP


	18. July 4, 1969

Bones tells me there were fireworks over the air field, that a group of AIT soldiers got a hold of some bottle rockets, peonies, palms, waterfalls, roman fucking candles. 

“Like bombs, Jim,” he said.  “Nice, yeah – red, white, and blue, but they sounded just like bombs.”  His voice was slurred and slow with bourbon – he’d left the bars before me, always too much too quick. 

I smiled and helped him into his bunk, covered him with a thin sheet and set a glass of water next to his head. 

I hadn’t seen the fireworks.  They’d given us most of the day off for celebrating, and the trainees swarmed into bars like ants, crowding the counter and throwing back doubles like they were water. 

Bones and I found a seat about an hour in, hunched around a small table in the back left corner of the room.  I was nursing my second beer, and pulled out my pack of cigarettes.  Bones glared at them. 

“Something wrong, Doc?” I asked, grinning, lighting up and taking the first sweet drag. 

“Those’ll kill you, kid,” he said, glowering over his glass. 

“That’s a myth, you know there’s no evidence to back it up,” I protested, blowing the smoke into his face just to annoy him. 

“Maybe not, but take it from me – putting smoke in your lungs?  That’s definitely not going to extend your lease on life, Jim.” 

“The way I see it, that lease wasn’t too long to begin with,” I said. 

Bones opened his mouth, looking for all the world like he wanted to argue, when we realized someone had approached our table. 

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice was soft, quiet, unassuming, lacking any form of inflection.  I registered the hand that was resting on the back of our table’s open seat – a familiar hand, the skin unblemished, pale; fingers long and fragile-looking, yet intimately familiar.  They had curled into fists, made repeated contact with my flesh, and suddenly it was like my body could recall all the wounds inflicted upon it – they ached, phantom pains, and I bit back a gasp. 

“No,” Bones said warily, glancing at me as if to make sure I was all right.  I studied the condensation on my beer glass with single-minded intensity, watching as a drop raced towards my thumb and broke over my skin.  “Jim?”

“Go right ahead,” I said, glancing up to meet Len’s eyes and then returning my gaze to my glass.  I’d been thinking about Spock for _days_ , yet as soon as he was _right fucking in front of me_ , I froze up.  I needed more booze. 

“Am I intruding?” Spock asked, hesitating. 

Resigned, I looked up to meet his eyes.  In the interim, I must have forgotten how they managed to remain calculating and yet warm, a warning and an invitation.  I wanted to lose myself in them. 

“We weren’t doing anything,” I said. 

“In fact, I was just about to go grab more drinks,” Bones said, standing. “Another beer, Jim?”

“Nah, two fingers of whatever will get me the drunkest.” 

“Comin’ right up.  Anything for you?” he asked, addressing Spock now. 

“I will take whatever Mr. Kirk is having,” he said, finally sitting down in the empty chair. 

Bones looked like he was suppressing a smirk as he walked away. 

“You can just call me Jim, you know,” I said, draining the rest of my beer, just for something to do. 

“Thank you,” Spock said, nodding, as if I’d done him some great courtesy. 

“Is Spock your first name?” I asked, floundering desperately for conversation. 

“Negative.  It is a family name,” Spock said. 

“All right,” I said, but didn’t press; Spock didn’t exactly _look_ foreign, but the name was definitely from another country, and if he didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t going to force him.  He also had weird speech patterns, and I wondered if English wasn’t his first language.  “Is it all right if I call you that?”

“Yes,” he said simply.  I nodded, and Bones returned to the table. 

“I’d love to stick around, kids, but there’s rumors of something going on down at the air field.  Uhura and Scotty-”

“You go ahead, Bones,” I said, grinning.

“Thanks, Jimbo,” he laughed, reaching across the table to ruffle my short hair. 

“Hey, I worked hard on that!” I shouted in mock anger – due to the military cut, there wasn’t much he could do to it. 

“See you back at the barracks,” Bones called back as he walked away. 

“You two are battle buddies?” Spock asked, and the words sounded strange – stilted, coming from his mouth. 

“Yeah.  Who’s yours?”

“His name is Gary Mitchell.”

“I once knew a guy by that name,” I said, and I remembered –

_a hot bar, sweaty men all around grinding and sex and booze and I’d just turned eighteen and the drinks were running free for me in a place like that_

_Gary, long legs and tight jeans and plump lips_

_a surprised shout – “Jim! Never thought I’d see you in a place like this”_

_and then there was dancing, a thigh between my knees and I was too drunk to remember how bad of an idea it was_

_scratchy motel sheets, frantic, sloppy kisses and fingernails scraping over sensitive skin_

_an empty bed in the morning, waking up to a feeling deep in my gut that I’d lost more than my virginity that night, that my best friend wouldn’t be waiting at my door the next day and_

He wasn’t.  And this was the first time I had let myself think about him since my eighteenth birthday, since I found out sometimes you could have too much of a good thing –

Spock nodded.  “He recognized you during the fight.  I assume it is the same man.” 

“Weird, how that happens,” I said absently, taking a long sip of the drink Bones had bought for me.  Spock mirrored my action, and we both winced at the burn of alcohol in our throats. 

“This is terrible,” I said, lifting the glass to inspect its contents – some kind of vodka. 

“Agreed,” Spock said. 

“Good enough for me,” I shrugged, shooting the rest. 

“Jim, you are aware our training is on a regular schedule tomorrow?”

“Hell yeah.  So you’d better drink up – if we’re gonna get drunk at all, it’s gotta be early in the night, so that we can sleep it off better.” 

Spock raised his right eyebrow in a perfect expression of surprise, and I had the strangest impulse to trace its straight line, feel the pull of his skin under mine –

He swallowed the rest of his in one neat gulp, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob with the action. 

“I’ll grab us another,” I said, taking his glass from his hands, not without difficulty.  Spock looked almost confused, like he hadn’t intended to follow my advice. 

“Thank you, Jim.” 

I nodded and clapped him on the shoulder.  How did we become affable?  Was I reading him wrong?  I didn’t think so. 

I returned with more booze and we proceeded to get well and properly wasted.  We talked about everything, and nothing – what he’d studied in college (linguistics), what I hadn’t studied in college (I couldn’t afford it).  Around our fourth drink, Spock leaned across the table and lowered his voice. 

“Why did you enlist?” His voice was endearingly slow with the vodka. 

“Didn’t,” I said, tracing a mark that had been scratched onto the wooden tabletop. 

“I see,” Spock said. 

“Did you?  Enlist?” I asked. 

“I did not wish to,” he said, staring pensively at his glass.  “I had no choice.  My entire family has been military.  It was… expected.  I had finished college, and the President called for a surge.  My father would not take no for an answer.” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”  I couldn’t think of anything else to say.  Suddenly, getting drafted didn’t sound so bad. 

“I would have thought, with your father-”

“I’m not my father,” I interrupted, and the words came out more harshly than I had intended. 

“No, of course not,” Spock said quietly.  “Apologies.” 

“It’s all right.  I get that a lot,” I said, looking up and meeting his gaze, hoping to convey my sincerity. 

The bar had mostly cleared out – there was something going on outside.  I was too drunk to think about it until later, until Bones told me about the peonies and the roman candles. In that moment, seated at a dirty table in a dark corner, nothing mattered but Spock – Spock and his stupid syntax, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when I said something he found funny, how his fingers wrapped around the glass clutched in his right hand. 

I took a deep breath and tore my eyes away from his. 

“I should go find Bones.  He’ll be wondering where I got to.” 

Spock nodded.  “It would be wise to attempt sleep before tomorrow.  I have heard rumors we will be working with grenades.” 

“Wonderful,” I said, laughing.  “Well, thanks for the company, Spock.” 

“It was my pleasure, Jim,” he said, and I extended a hand for him to shake, which he took after a moment of hesitation. 

I called over my shoulder, “Let’s do it again sometime!” and left the bar.  My hand still feels like it’s tingling, where he touched it, and I

fuck

I’m gonna forget about it.  Sleep it off.  Maybe in the morning I won’t remember a damn thing. 

 _Like bombs, Jim._   I bet the men overseas are listening to the sound of helicopters, of burning napalm and missiles bursting in huts.  I bet they can’t stop thinking of their girls back home.  Of a picnic blanket and fireworks on the fourth of July.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you for reading and leaving love, every time someone gives me good feedback it makes me want to write more! I hope you're all having a great summer so far (if it's summer in your part of the world)!


	19. July 10, 1969

Uhura says I’ve got the hang of shorthand at this point – she looked over my work last night, gave this little nod of approval, said, “You’re a fast learner.  Been practicing?”

I grinned up at her.  “Aptitude tests always said there was something else there, believe it or not.”  It was meant as a joke, but the words tasted sour in my mouth. 

“I do,” she said, and it was like she’d surprised herself, because she retreated to her bunk to go talk to Scotty. 

I already knew a bit, before everything.  It’s not like it was all new, and it’s phonetic anyways.   Shorthand’s pretty necessary to get by in the workplace, doing odd jobs, transcribing – typewriters aren’t cheap. 

Besides, I gotta start to do something to mark the passage of time.  Writing seems as good as anything.  It’s strange, because the days seem to blur together here – we’re all running on no sleep and bad food and it’s some sort of damn purgatory. 

The men have been talking about it, when we have time.  About Apollo.  It’s so prominent in the national eye it’s even reaching us on this godforsaken base. 

It makes me think, though.  About August 6th, 1945.  What was it like, Pike?  You remember.  You weren’t there, no, you weren’t old enough yet, but you remember.  Did they show footage on the news?  Did they talk about Oppenheimer? 

_We knew the world would not be the same.  A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent.  I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture… “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”_

And now – now, we’re here, aren’t we?  And I’m pulling mud out of the soles of my army-issued real leather boots with my bare hands, and it’s getting under my fingernails.  I’ve washed my hands so many times, but that dirt stays there, like it’s engrained in the ridges of my skin.   And Bones is sleeping away underneath me but I can’t get to sleep, because when I do sleep I dream about the newsreels, about palm trees on fire and paddies that’ll suck the legs out from under you. 

Three nights ago, I dreamt that Uhura died in my arms.  Blood pouring from her mouth, and she was smiling – goddamn _smiling_ as she went.  There was a camera crew by my right shoulder and I remember thinking, in my dream, that I wanted them gone, that they should let her die in peace.  Or maybe that the President would see it.  That he’d call us home. 

Two nights ago I had a dream that Bones went MIA.  He was out on a mission and for some reason he didn’t make it back; he was a POW and they wouldn’t let me go after him.  I was halfway to writing a letter to Jo before I remembered that her daddy was asleep in the bunk below me, that he was safe and he wouldn’t be going on any missions.  Field medics hang back.  They heal people.  They don’t get hurt. 

Last night I dreamed about Spock.  And it wasn’t bloody or anything, we were just – in a rec room, somewhere.  It was white and sterile and so far removed from the training field, from the clearing where we’d fought and the bar where we’d drank that I almost wanted to cry.  We sat there, in my dream, and we played chess.  He took black, because he was some sort of Grand Master – not that I’d doubt it if he really was – and we played an entire game of chess in that dream, all the way to checkmate.  He smiled at me – I’ve never seen him smile before, not really – as he tipped over his King, and then we were sitting underneath a field of stars, corn on the air and Iowa grass under my feet. 

“What’s your favorite constellation?” I’d asked him, because it seemed like the most natural thing – to stargaze. 

“I am not sure I have a favorite,” he had said, looking at me with those deep, sad eyes.  Their color was lost to the night but his brow was furrowed, like he thought he should have an answer to my question. 

I asked him, if his life depended on it, which constellation he would pick. 

“Eridanus.” 

“The River,” I had said.  “Why?”

“The myth says that Phaethon wished proof that Apollo was his father.  He asked to drive the sun across the sky, but he drove too close to the heavens, then plunged too close to the earth, scorching both realms.  Jupiter cast him from the chariot and he fell, like a star, to Eridanus.  He left a trail behind him.” 

I had pointed out Orion, my favorite.  “Eridanus connects to it – there,” I said.  As I leaned in to point, his shoulder had brushed mine.  I jolted awake, sweating, and it couldn’t have been later than two because Duncan and Stevens were getting up to do fire guard.

And it’s funny, because they’re calling it Apollo.  Apollo, the god who allowed Phaethon to drive the sun too close to the heavens and to the earth.  Is that who we are?  Phaethon?  And what will it mean? 

And when will I see him again? 


	20. July 18, 1969

We’re all fucking zombies.  I’m not sure if this is some sort of advanced Basic (because fuck me if it doesn’t feel like that), but we still got AIT after this and I’m not sure I’m gonna survive it.  Fucking basic skills bullshit – the entire platoon is dead on their feet. 

We’ve been running obstacle courses, fitness programs, and they’re weeding out the folks who can’t pass the physical tests, sending them elsewhere for more training.  The goddamn weapons tests were brutal; one or two of the guys didn’t pass the M203 grenade launcher, but you can’t really blame them ‘cause half the guys doing the training barely know how to use the thing.  Just released this year and they’ve already got ‘em mass-produced and widely used. 

The weapons are pass/fail, and all of us passed them pretty easy.  I guess some of us won badges or some shit for exceptional marksmanship – Uhura and I cleared out everything, Scotty scored something or other for the M16, and Bones just managed to scrape by.  He says he doesn’t like guns, and I fucking believe it.  The way he handles the things, you’d think they could self-destruct in his hands at any fucking second.

We’ve seen a bit more of the other platoon members this past week, too – Sulu and Chekov have been around in the mess, and have even sat with us a few times.  They don’t seem to have many friends within their barracks.  I guess that’s normal.  Battle buddies get close ‘cause they can’t ever leave each other’s sides, but what time is there, really, to talk when you wouldn’t even take a hot lay over a few hours of sleep? 

Chekov’s got this spunky personality – kid must be razor smart, and I’m dying to know why the hell he’s here instead of off at MIT with a full ride.  Sulu, though, seems a bit more straight arrow, and if I had to guess I’d say he enlisted.  He’s older, probably more my age, but Chekov’s young, so fucking young.  Can’t be older than eighteen, and it gets me wondering if he’d even had his first legal drink before he got shipped to Basic. 

I’ve seen Spock a few times, but never in the presence of Gary, which I’m actually pretty thankful for.  With where we left things, I’m not sure if – our friendship, well, it didn’t stand the strain even then.  And every time I think about him, it’s like worms crawling under my skin, because all I can think about is how it felt to walk onto that bus the morning after Johnny’s brother’s wake – after Brendan, or was it Patrick?  How it feels every time I wake up to an empty bed, or to sun filtering through dusty blinds into an equally dirty room. 

But it feels – Spock feels like something else. 

I went over to his unit a few nights ago during our personal time.  I wasn’t sure if he would be asleep, or what, but that dream was still on my mind and I just had to see him.  I felt like I needed to talk to him.  I borrowed Jansen’s chess set (small, portable thing) and I got in through the back without anyone seeing.  We still aren’t really supposed to go places without our battle buddies and Bones was writing a letter to Jo – plus, I wasn’t gonna make him hang out with me.  We spend every fucking waking moment together, anyways. 

So I snuck in, found him sitting on his bed reading a book on Vietnamese – and shit, who does that?  Spends their free time thinking about where we’re gonna be, what we’re gonna be doing, in just a few months’ time?  

He looked up as I sat down next to him, and the very corner of his mouth tilted up, just a bit, in what I thought could be a smile. 

“Where is the Doctor?” he asked, setting his book aside. 

I shrugged.  “Not here.” 

“And are you supposed to be here?”

“Well, I’m not sure, strictly speaking, that I’m _allowed_ to be here,” I said, leaning back against the bed frame, “but I’m here nonetheless.  Do you play chess?” 

Spock blinked – he hadn’t been expecting the question.  “I do.” 

“Perfect,” I said, opening up the board and beginning to set up the pieces; Spock reached over to help, and our fingers barely brushed, but I felt something like lightning in my stomach.  I’m not sure if Spock felt it, too, but he pulled his hand back.  I glanced up and I think his face was flushed, but it’s hard to tell in the light of the buildings here – the designers were a bit Spartan with the bulbs. 

“You may take white,” Spock said when we’d set the final pieces in place. 

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” I laughed as I moved a pawn. 

“And why would that be?”

“Dunno, just thought – guy like you, college grad and all, you’re probably pretty smart.  Good tactical mind, good fighting mind – good chess mind.” 

“That is… not logical,” Spock said, frowning, as I captured one of his knights. 

“’Fraid I don’t play a very logical chess game, Mr. Spock.” 

He raised one eyebrow and retaliated by capturing my rook. 

We played up until it was time for me to go back to my barracks, and it was still a stalemate – he said he’d remember the positions of the pieces and that we’d pick it up next time.  Something about eidetic memory – but he seemed serious, so I went with it. 

“Hey, you hear about Apollo?” I asked, pausing, gripping the folded chess board in one hand. 

“Everyone has heard about Apollo, Jim,” Spock said, and this time there was a definite smile at his lips. 

“Well, you know, I heard they’re giving us time.  To watch.  You – feel free to come find us, all right?  If you want.”

He nodded, and I left. 

“Jesus, Jim, where’ve you been?” Bones hissed as I snuck back into the building.  “You’re a damn fool, you are, Smokey-”

“Could’ve seen me.  Didn’t,” I said, grinning.  “Lay off, Bones, I’m just making friends!  What, you jealous?”

He scowled.  “I get bad vibes from him.  The guy never smiles.” 

“You’ve also spent about _zero_ time around him-”

“I’m a good judge of character, and you know it,” Bones said, turning over onto his stomach. 

“I don’t know, you’re friends with me, so I wouldn’t be too certain about that.”

He slapped my leg, and I laughed as I got into bed.  I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, had a hard time thinking about anything but the lightning in my stomach and how it wasn’t like anything I’d felt before.  And I gotta say, it brings a little bit of life back into the walking dead.


	21. July 20, 1969

6:56 P.M. 

It’s funny, because people are always talking about the sixties – and I guess they’re right.  Free love, drugs, the fuckin Beatles, civil rights and women’s rights and even goddamn gay rights.  Not like that’s ever going to happen, but at least we’ve come somewhere with black people.  That’s saying something, ‘cause I remember the fucking fifties. 

The fifties!  American Bandstand, fucking _Jailhouse Rock_ , the goddamn Little Rock Nine.  The Red Scare.  The Boeing 707.  Shit, I remember the first time I saw Elvis on the TV.  I was so young but I knew, even then, just how crazy he drove girls.  I watched his hips swing back and forth like a pendulum, and it got me crazy, too.  Even then.  And shit, the advertisements, the refrigerators, the model American family and the horror movies, the ever present threat of the fucking communists.  That hasn’t left, but at least we aren’t looking for them here at home.

So, the fifties.  1957, to be exact.  I guess that’s when it really all began – Sputnik, everything that followed – Vanguard in December, an explosion on a launch pad, Explorer 1 in ’58.  Kennedy’s election, monumental in itself, and then his speech at Rice in ’62.  I remember hearing about it, watching clips on the news, reading it in the journals, so many times I got it memorized:

_We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on man, and only if the United States occupies a position of pre-eminence can we help decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new terrifying theater of war. I do not say that we should or will go unprotected against the hostile misuse of space any more than we go unprotected against the hostile use of land or sea, but I do say that space can be explored and mastered without feeding the fires of war, without repeating the mistakes that man has made in extending his writ around this globe of ours._

_There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation may never come again. But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas?_

_We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too._

And as we huddled around the TV in the rec room, as we hunched over and made way for our platoon members to come through, as we choked down our dinners fast enough to be the first ones there, we waited, and we thought about President Kennedy.  Taken from us in his prime, from a wife and kids and a country that needed to be inspired.  That needed to be guided, to be led. 

To have a man on the moon before the decade was out?  What a fucking nut – and I guess that’s why I liked him.  Despite the failings, the expense, he made the call – and in the end, he called for exploration, for setting into space the way mariners once viewed the sea.  Vast.  Unexplored, with new life out there waiting to be found.  Peace and stardust and the swirls of galaxies moving underneath humanity’s feet – and we would not be hearts at peace, under an English heaven; no, heaven would be all around us, in the turn of the universe and the hum of the stars. 

Spock came and found the six of us, crowded around a small table, fingers gripping the sides as we watched the dark screen – waiting, waiting. 

“And we’re getting a picture on the TV…” the announcer said, and the room grew deadly still.

“You got a good picture, huh?”

“Uh, there’s a great deal of contrast there, and there – currently it’s upside-down, I’m on the monitor, but we can make out some amount of detail…”

A white, grainy shape appeared onscreen, and it looked like a suit but it was impossible to tell.  The room broke out in whispers.

“Okay, would you verify the position, uh, the opening I oughta have on the camera?”

“Say what?”

The white shape began to move and we knew – we knew –

“Okay, there, we can see you coming down the ladder now.”

“Okay, I just checked, uh, I’m getting back up to that first step, so it doesn’t collapse too far, but it’s adequate to get back up.  You copy?”

“-it’s pretty good now-”

“Ah, Buzz, this is Houston, 21160th second for shadow we see on the sequence camera-”

“Okay, I’m uh, at the foot of the ladder – the footpads are only uh, uh, depressing the surface about, uh, one or two inches-”

The screen was brighter now, less dark and we could see him moving up and down the ladder, one foot moving towards another world –

“-although the surface appears to be, uh, very, very fine-grained if you get close to it, it’s almost like a powder – it’s very fine.”

He moved farther down. 

“I’m gonna step off the LEM now.”

Nobody breathed. 

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” 

Neil Armstrong’s foot touched the earth, and I heard Spock inhale sharply from where he stood at my side. I glanced over and watched as his face, rapt with amazement, turned towards mine – a slight smile tugged at his lips. 

“Ah, that looks beautiful from here.”

“It has a stark beauty all its own, it’s uh, like much of the high desert of the United States, it’s, uh, different, but it’s very pretty out here.”

I grinned back at Spock, bumping his shoulder in the silence of the room, and he moved his fingers – only an inch, sure, but it was enough to brush them against my own. 

“We did it,” I whispered as the room began to speak again, light murmurings from the assembled crowd.  I thought Uhura may have been crying.  Bones just looked shocked; Pavel and Hikaru were shoving at each other excitedly, talking quickly in hushed voices.  “We put a man on the fucking moon.” 

“Take that, you fucking commie scum!” came a voice from the other side of the room.  Chekov’s brows contracted, but he pointedly ignored the offender.

“Indeed,” Spock said at last, and his fingers flexed, just slightly.  He sounded fucking post-coital. 

“Who would have thought, right?” I laughed, shaking my head. 

“Putting a man on the moon is only half the battle, Jim.” 

“I know.”

“It is my belief, however, that ‘space can be explored and mastered without feeding the fires of war,’” Spock said, his half-smile back, “if only we have the leadership required to do so.”

I grinned.  “How ‘bout we finish up that game of chess, Mr. Spock?”

“That is agreeable,” Spock said, giving my fingers one final press of his own before withdrawing and walking towards the exit. 

“Hey, Bones-”

“Yeah, kid, I know,” Bones laughed, finally tearing his gaze away from the television.  “I’m gonna go get smashed with Scotty – be home by nine, you hear?”

“Yes, mom,” I said, and he shoved me in the small of my back towards the door. 

We finished our game.  I won. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> President Kennedy did indeed promise to land a man on the moon and return him safely to Earth in his 1961 address to Congress. The speech he gave at Rice University Stadium was in 1962. All the satellites Kirk talks about are real, and he references a poem by Rupert Brooke called "The Soldier", which would have been read (in some form) to the nation, had the landing gone ill - in some way, a burial at sea for the lost astronauts, who gave their life in service of their country. All dialogue is from the Apollo footage.


	22. July 26, 1969

Our last PT test was yesterday, and it was fucking brutal.  Bones grumbled through the whole thing, Uhura passed with the highest score in our group, and Scotty scored a _just-scraped-through_ 151. 

We celebrated, last night, during personal time, that we were all moving on to bivouac.  It sounds miserable - well, they call it camping, but we all know it’s fucking FTX (field training exercises), MOUT (military operations in urban terrain), and night ops.  Fucking MREs for two weeks straight, that’s what it’s gonna be.  We’ve got to get used to it at some point, though, for when we’re out doing night ops over in Nam.  At least here we won’t be getting shot at – at least, not with real bullets. 

Other units who’ve now entered Phase III will also be out there with us, and there’s going to be a fake battle later on into bivouac.  The army seems pretty keen to be giving us competition, and it makes me wonder if they think our hormones will get the best of us if we can’t fight something tangible. 

Maybe they’re right, because the other night I heard Kim and Daniels talking about how excited they are, to go overseas.  How they can’t wait to feel the way their gun grows hot against their hands.  Daniels said he heard the men string ears together to make necklaces – one ear from every gook they kill.  A trophy.  Bennett said his cousin brought back a handful of teeth. 

I think we’re going to be around the other men in our platoon for bivouac.  It’s been a few days since we last saw Spock, Chekov, and Sulu, although I’m not sure the others are counting.  I’m not sure why I’m counting, except.  There’s something. 

We were playing poker last night, using nuts for money, and I was making a killing. Uhura turned to Scotty and asked him why he didn’t go by Montgomery.  Bones snorted and hid behind his cards. 

“Montgomery?” I asked, completely bewildered.  “Is that your name?”

“Well, you didn’t think my name was really Scotty, did you?” he asked, taking one look at the turn and folding. 

“No, I knew it was a nickname, I just – _Montgomery_.”

He shrugged.  “When we came over from Scotland, my mum – bless her heart – kept calling me Monty.  But the accent and the last name made it sort of a lost cause for the children at school.” 

Uhura gaped.  “Did your accent used to be stronger?”

“Aye,” Scotty said.  “It’s definitely diluted.  I can even make a passable attempt at American.”

He did a crude impersonation of James Stewart and it was a few minutes before we could breathe again, we were laughing so hard. 

“When’d you get citizenship?” Uhura asked, taking the pot with a two-pair aces high.  She’s amazing at bluffing. 

“Already had it.  My dad was born here.”

I nodded.  “Enlist?”

“Not by choice, my god.  The authorities caught up with me one too many times for public intoxication.  Thought I should make somethin’ of myself.  So I’m here, stuck with you sorry lads.  And lass,” he amended, nodding at Uhura.  She grinned. 

“Thanks, _Monty_ , but I don’t mind.” 

“If you-” he began, but I cut in. 

“Quit it, you two, you’re like an old married couple.” 

I’d never known Scotty could throw such a dirty look – Uhura gives me death glares on a regular basis, but he’s usually more mild-tempered. 

“You excited for our camping trip?”

Bones sighed as he pushed a few more nuts to the center of the table.  “Be careful, Jim.  You keep telling yourself it’s a camping trip, you might even start to believe it.”

“MREs for a week?  No, thanks,” Uhura said, studying Bones’ face for a tell.  “Come on, Len.  What d’you got?”

“You wish,” he muttered, drawing his cards a bit closer to his chest.  Uhura grinned and called.  “Don’t know why they’re making me do FTX anyways,” he continued.  “I’m a doctor, not a goddamn infantryman.”

Scotty laughed.  “Ah, Doctor, everyone’s a soldier in war.  Even medics.” 

Uhura won the round – again – and we had to hit it. 

I haven’t been sleeping too well.  I keep having this dream ever since the moon landing, and it’s always the same.  In it, I’m standing on sandstone, earth like you’d find in Bryce.  The air is so still around me, and it’s almost like I can feel it – just a bit of pressure on my skin, but not uncomfortable, more like an embrace.  It’s night, but not night like I’ve ever seen it, because the sky is impossibly full of stars.  All the black space, the empty regions of the sky I see at night in San Francisco, or Iowa, are gone.  The Milky Way is spread out before me, a river of stardust and I want to swim it.  Eridanus is to my right, Orion at its side, and they are the same even though the sky is so different.  I feel as if I could touch them. 

In my dream, the air changes.  It is no longer comforting, but constricting, and I can feel my airways closing.  The ground below my feet turns the color of ash and when I look at the horizon I can see the slope of the globe, gray craters stretched before my eyes and I forget that I can’t breathe because _there_ , just _there_ , is the Earth. 

Swimming in space, like a marble, or a jewel, storms blowing across its surface in great blooms of cloud, the green of the American grasslands and the brown of her mountains.  I see it, I see everything, the great ice caps at the north and south and I am amazed at her enormity, but also at how small I am.  The Earth is before me and I am on the moon, just a small life form in the face of this impossible universe, and I realize how tiny the Earth is compared to the cosmos.  It took us so many millennia to reach one rock orbiting our own planet and I cannot fathom how we could go farther, how we could reach for more. 

I remember I can’t breathe and I fall to the surface of the moon, grasping my throat, tears stinging with oxygen deprivation when I feel a hand on my shoulder and my lungs open again.  Inhale, exhale, and the hand is underneath my arm and it is lifting me, lifting me up to face the Earth again, to see the stars beyond.  I can breathe.  I turn to see who it is, who saved me.

And that’s when I wake up.  I’ve never seen their face, and when I wake it’s with one hand outstretched, like I’m looking for something.  Reaching for something.  My heart is pounding and I’m sweating and I realize I’m afraid, but I don’t know how to dispel the fear. 

I think about Spock and his Vietnamese translation book, about Uhura and her determination to show the courts what she’s made of.  About Bones and his daughter.  Giotto, and the girl back home he won’t shut up about. 

I’m scared.  I’m more scared of this thing than anything else before in my life.  I wonder how men have done it, why they’ve done it.  Why the Spartans created their culture around it.  Did they question it, as they bled out on Athenian spears?  Did they fear death?  What is it like, to feel the life slipping from you?  I’ve never thought to fear death.  I never have, until now.  What of it?  What of it?    

_Death is just another path, one that we all must take.  The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it… White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise._

That doesn’t sound so bad. 

_No.  No, it isn’t._


	23. July 31, 1969

_“Kirk!  Cover his six, are you trying to get the man killed?”_

_“Private, watch where you’re pointing that rifle!  Drop down and give me twenty, all of you!”_

“You’re going to be divided into teams.  You’ll draw straws to see who will be your commanding officers during this scenario.  This exercise gives us valuable input as to what your styles will be like in the field.  If any of you may be looking at promotions during AIT.  Gentlemen.  This is important.  Do I have your attention?”

_“You asking for that wall to crumble in on you?  Watch your damn back!”_

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  Now, I’ll leave you to it.” 

You ever known what it’s like, to not know where your legs are at?  Surviving on fucking dehydrated meat cubes, meager MREs.  I would probably – literally – kill someone for a cheeseburger right about now. 

We all stared at each other – we’d be paired with Spock’s barracks to create a platoon.  The other men in our unit would be our enemies, and we were going to be fighting them on a sparsely vegetated couple acres of land, owned by the army and used for tactical exercises. 

A few of the guys stepped back automatically, like Bones, because he wanted to stay as far away from command as possible.  The rest of us stepped forward, drew our straws.  Mine was short. 

“Well, look at that,” Bones said, coming up on my left.  “What does that make you, then – our temporary Captain?”

I turned to him, grinning, trying to shove down the blossoming fear in my chest.  “I don’t know, Bones, Captain James T. Kirk sure does have a nice ring to it.”

Uhura drew second-in command – her straw was a little longer than my own. 

“Aw, great.”  Jones’ voice.  “Bad enough we gotta train with her, I ain’t gonna be commanded by a nigger bitch.”

“Stand down, Jones,” I said, turning to face him.  His blond hair was dirty, disheveled, and mud was smeared underneath his right ear. 

His lip curled.  “You’re just as bad, you fucking race-traitor.” 

People started to turn and look.  I could sense Uhura about twelve feet behind me, and I knew Scotty must’ve been doing something to hold her back. 

“Private Jones, you will follow her orders or you will leave this unit and explain to Sergeant Nichols why you aren’t where you’re supposed to be, and since the Assistant Attorney General himself gave the right for Uhura to be here today, I’m guessing he won’t take it too kindly.”

Jones opened his mouth, as if to respond, but I cut him off.  “I’m not going to allow any sort of discrimination to affect the performance of this unit.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, _what_?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” I said, turning back towards the map with which we had been provided.  It was dimly lit by the few bulbs dangling from the tent’s ceiling, which were bouncing with the rain that had been falling persistently since the afternoon.  “Uhura, status report.” 

“Our intelligence has placed their camp here,” she said, pointing to a spot in the map surrounded by forest.  “Sir, I believe our best course of action would be to coordinate with the rest of our unit to engage the enemy first.  A preemptive strike.” 

“Stevens,” I said, not turning away from the map. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Go find the neighboring CO.  Ask if he will bring his men here.” 

“Yes, sir.”

A minute later, Spock and Sulu strode into the tent, their men crowding in around their backs. 

“Mr. Spock,” I said, beyond happy and almost unsurprised.  Like I knew it was going to be him. 

“Mr. Kirk,” he returned the greeting, the right corner of his mouth tugging up in something almost like a smile. 

“Uhura here thinks we should flank the enemy camp,” I said, gesturing towards the map.  “What do you think?”

Spock hesitated.  “Her idea has merit.”

“But?” I prompted.

“I believe such an attack may be too predictable.”

I nodded.  “I think you’re right.  We need to do something they aren’t going to expect.” 

“What do you propose?” Uhura said, but it wasn’t bitter.  She was curious. 

I grinned, long and slow.  “We attack them head-on.  Have two smaller groups wait – oh, five minutes – then attack, flank their sides.  Another smaller force will establish a perimeter.” 

Spock was nodding; Sulu’s brow was furrowed and Uhura simply looked skeptical. 

“Uhura, you and Sulu take command of the two flanking units.  Giotto,” I said, turning to him (he’d had one of the best shots in rifling), “you take the group with the perimeter.”

“What about you and Spock?” Sulu asked.

“We’re gonna take them head-on.  I want teams of ten, the rest will hang back to guard the base.  I want a perimeter around the exterior, send a messenger if you need reinforcements.  Go.” 

They scattered.  I’d never seen anything like it before in my life, and it felt like – like

“Jim, do you really believe the COs of an operation would be part of the vanguard of an attack?” Spock asked, and I jumped. 

“No, but that’s why it’s great.  We take good shots, we’ll get the jump.  It’ll throw them off their guard, and that’s when the other groups will come in.”

Spock still looked troubled.  “It is not logical.”

“War isn’t logical, Spock,” I sighed.  “We’ll take the bridge, over the stream – there,” I said, pointing to the spot on the map.  “Have to be careful, though, they can bottleneck it.” 

“All set, sir,” Uhura said as she returned to the table to stand next to us.  “Awaiting orders.” 

“Spock, grab our team,” I said, slinging my rifle over my shoulder.  We wouldn’t be firing real bullets, but it still felt genuine.  “Uhura, you wait five minutes, then you go, all right?  It’s up to you and Sulu to think quick on your feet if anything goes wrong.”

“Aye, sir,” she nodded.  “Good luck, Jim.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling at her as she spun on her heel and marched out to join her team. 

Night had already fallen and the rain was coming down in sheets, soaking us through.  I cringed as I thought about how it would feel to be sleeping in a wet tent – hazards of BCT in the Northwest, though. 

“Ready?” I asked, approaching my team.  They nodded, and Spock gripped the barrel of his rifle a little tighter. 

“Affirmative.” 

“Great, let’s do this.  Silent, now, try not to make too much noise.  It’s meant to be a stealth attack.” 

We started off through the brush, and of course, that’s when it all went to shit. 

The bridge we were supposed to cross had been washed out by the heavy rains – or the mods had removed it, either way, we had to ford the stream.  A few of the men’s equipment got washed away by the water – not their gun, but some stuff in their belts, like grenades, extra cartridges – and we were already disadvantaged. 

When we got to their camp, they were waiting for us. 

What ensued was (if the bullets had been real, of course) bloody and entirely unpredicted.  Spock and I managed to take cover in a copse of trees, taking down men around the perimeter, but we lost the majority of our team as they blundered their way through the alders on the fringes of the camp.  Spock and I might’ve been surrounded if not for the sudden and timely arrival of Sulu, whose squad provided a much-needed surge.  Uhura, as planned, had brought her force in from the other side, and soon the enemy unit was walled out, their casualties littered around the edges of the campsite.  We had our fair share, but ours were at least grinning. 

“Lay your weapons on the ground!” Uhura shouted, rifle aimed directly at one soldier’s face, and he looked about as scared as I’ve ever seen a man.  She’s really something when she gets shouting – it could instill the fear of god in anyone. 

They practically threw them down, and we went back to base that night victorious, muddy, and completely fucking soaking wet.  I was headed back to my tent after washing my exposed skin off in a basin full of rain water, and found Spock waiting outside. 

“Hey,” I said, surprised – but also, not surprised at all.  “Wanna come in? I’m with Bones, but I think he’s still back at the wash.” 

Spock’s hair was flattened on his head, giving him an awful semblance of a bowl cut, and I almost wanted to laugh except on him it somehow worked.  I watched raindrops roll down his face in the dim light of the encampment, and found myself resisting the urge to reach out and trace their path. 

“I came to commend you for your handling of the simulation today,” Spock said, and he was still holding himself stiffly.  I couldn’t think why. 

“Hey, couldn’t have done it without you.”

Spock nodded, a small, aborted movement, like he wasn’t sure if he meant it or not.  “I believe you would make a good commanding officer.” 

“Same goes to you, Spock,” I said, reaching out and grasping his right shoulder.  Impossibly, he stiffened even further, and I withdrew my hand as if burned.  Shit, maybe I crossed some unknown cultural taboo?  I’d never even asked him where he was from.  Maybe it was a religious thing.  “You going into infantry?”

“Yes.”

“I guess we’ll be spending some more time around each other, then,” I said, giving him a tentative smile and nearly sagging with relief when he raised his eyebrow in response. 

“Indeed.  I will let you rest.  Good-night, Jim.”  And he left. 

I stripped out of my wet clothes (not without difficulty) and hunkered down in my bedroll, listening passively to the patter of rain on the canvas tent.  Sleep came slowly, when it came at all.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his lips looked as they curved around the sound of my name.


	24. August 10, 1969

It’s quiet, here.  The past four days or so have been like this.  Hushed.  Men are nursing their wounds (I say _men_ because Uhura doesn’t appear to have any), repairing their guns, their canteens.  We had our dress uniform fitting yesterday – they pinned all these little badges to my chest for marksmanship skills.  I felt – different, I guess.  Wearing it.  It’s not fatigues, and for some reason it makes it feel so real.  Like, this was just summer camp.  Sleeping in tents, eating from the mess, communal showers and early morning wake-ups.  But now comes AIT and then? 

And then –

I got a letter from Pike a few days ago.  He was just checking in, asking if Basic went all right and where they’d be sending me for AIT. 

I told him we’re headed off to Fort Benning.  Bones keeps talking at me like I’m gonna have time to see the whole damn state, but we both know that’s not true.  I think he’s just trying to keep my mind off it – what I’m going there to do.  He’s been complaining nonstop about going to Texas: “Unbelievable.  There’s no godly reason for me to go traipsing halfway across the country, I was a _surgeon_ in a _real hospital_ and if that doesn’t qualify me for combat medic work then I don’t know what does.”

He’s been arguing a lot with the head of the resident MEDCOM division and he says he’s on the cusp of working something out.  God, I hope so – if Bones isn’t over there with me, I don’t know what I’ll do.  They integrate combat medics with units, so that they can move easily with the troops.  Stay with the men, provide care, that’s what they do.  In peacetime, training might be more rigorous, but Bones says they’re putting medics through 16 week basic EMT training, and that he knows it all already, and maybe he can push some things around so he can get assigned to our infantry division.  We don’t even have our orders yet, and he’s already looking out for us. 

I told Pike about some of the people I’ve met, since being here.  Like Uhura – I think he’ll get a laugh out of that, a girl serving in the army.  She’s coming with the rest of us to Fort Benning, and we know we’ll be in the same unit for training.  Makes sense, to keep soldiers working together who’ve already formed bonds. 

I don’t think they’re gonna be forming any new regiments when sending us out – we’ve already got enough confusion and companies over there.  We’ll be sent in as reinforcements.  Inexperienced, cardboard cutout soldiers meant to be shot at and left for dead in a muddy field where the ground will swallow you up.  Make a meal of you.  And they’ll never find your body, no, you’ll just disappear, and maybe next spring they’ll grow rice on top of you.  And what of it?  Who the fuck says anything? 

Not me.  That’s for damn sure. 

But if Bones is there with me, to patch me back up and throw some stiches on my wounds (“Jim, you’re gonna cause yourself more harm out there than any commie bastard”) – I think I might just live through this.  I think I might just live through it.

Most of the men in our barracks group are going into other specialties – communicators, aviation, armor, engineering!  Maybe it’d be better, you know, having a place.  Not just being… whatever it is we are.  Brute force?  Weapons in ourselves.  The heart of the army, that’s what they’d like us to think, but we’re just targets, all dressed the same, fatigues without a name, without a face. 

We’ve a few days to graduation, and I’ve – shit, I’ve been avoiding Spock.  I don’t know why, really, except he does something to me.  It’s like gravity, only I’m not sure if I’m pulling him to me or me to him.  I just know that when we fought side-by-side together, all of last week, it felt so natural, more so than when it was Bones, or Uhura, Scotty.  It was something settling in my chest, locking into place in a way it hadn’t ever done before.  Is it weird to say that he gets me?  I sound like a girl. 

A few nights after our night ops mission, the drill sergeants were waging some sort of attack on us – without warning, at four in the morning.  We’d had to prep for battle while crawling from our bedrolls (and shit, I know that’s how it’s gonna be over there but it’s hard to fight half-asleep), but he found me in the absolute chaos that followed.  Bones was at our backs (“Can’t ever get some sleep around here, what do they want from us, I’m a _doctor_ ”) covering us, but in no time we’d assembled a small company just by standing together.  Like people remembered what it’d been like a few nights back, surrounding the fake encampment (“Lay your weapons on the ground!”), and in four minutes flat we’d made a strategy to take out the sergeants. 

It wasn’t without some flaws, sure, but the men made it work and we had it wrapped up before 5 AM.  They even gave us an extra two hours of sleep for “original thinking.”  It was the best thing they’ve ever done for us. 

There’s something there, though.  The way he checked my first two dumb ideas, how we worked together to create something else, something worth implementing.  Something I’d never dreamed up on my own, but with him made perfect sense. 

I’m not even sure if I’m still talking about the battle, or maybe about something else.  I just know that he stands at my side, and I at his, like we belong there. 

I know that, if we had the opportunity, we could be something great. 

I know that, if we had the time, we might – maybe, if we were very, very lucky – even get to be something good.


	25. August 14, 1969

Hey, Spock. 

You’re sitting next to me on the plane right now; you fell asleep just as we were passing over the Rockies.  You don’t know that, of course, because you let me take the window seat after I told you how much I liked to see the ground drop away beneath our feet, liked to feel the pull of the plane on the lower part of my stomach as we jet up from the earth.

But I know it, because I’m looking out the window and we’re crossing over fields and fields and fields and some of them are regular rectangular plots and others are rectangles with smaller green circles inside of them. Some aren’t normal shapes at all, and I think I can tell what they’re growing (you know I’m a farm boy, I told you that once, as we were hunched over a chess board in the barracks while the summer rain fell outside), and it looks like corn. 

The sky is endless, Spock, stretched out in an arc and I can see where the ground meets the horizon and it stretches on forever. 

Bones told me he hates flying, that airplanes remind him of Icarus and he’s too scared the wings won’t hold up.  That we’re headed too close for the heavens and that we’re gonna burn, the metal hull cracking and we’ll plummet to the earth with just enough time to say one last Hail Mary before it all goes black.

I told him he was being stupid, and I have the feeling that if he were here right now you’d turn to him (if you weren’t asleep) and say something like, “Doctor, you are being illogical.  Airplanes are quite safe.”

But you’re sleeping, have been since Colorado.  And Bones isn’t here, he left this morning for the Lone Star State where he’ll be surrounded by gun-toting rednecks – and I guess he’s used to that, but I’ll never get how he can stand it. 

I say that because – well, you probably don’t know, since Bones is more tight-lipped about his secrets than anyone I’ve ever known, but he was a social rights activist, back south.  You ever figure?  Not me.

He was there, he said, when Dr. King made his speech about dreaming, and he’d marched to Washington with the rest of them.  Held a sign in his steady surgeon’s hands and picketed for the rights of black folks.  He told me his family had owned slaves, back before the Thirteenth Amendment, and it’d never sat right with him – Jim Crow and all.  “Wouldn’t refuse to operate on ‘em, because they’re people, just like anyone. Don’t see how you can refuse them their God-given, constitutionally protected rights.  Man or woman should be allowed to vote, have facilities that are proper.  We’ve got integrated units, why not integrated restaurants? Movie theaters?  Neighborhoods?”

But of course you didn’t know that; the only person more quiet than Bones is yourself.  Even earlier, when I’d asked you if you’d ever been on a plane before, all you did was give me that enigmatic not-smile and buckle in your seatbelt.  I’m a patient man, and I know how to wait, but there’s a point where even I will break.

What is it about you?  What’s your story? Your family is military; sure, I’ll take that.  Where did your father serve – Japan, Germany, Korea? 

You asked me to keep you distracted as we took off, because with the sensation of falling – that _pull pull pull_ that I love so much in flight – your stomach starts to churn and you need to hear something that isn’t the whir of the engines. 

“Who’s your favorite artist?” I asked you, half expecting you to not give me a straight answer. 

You told me it was Mondrain, and when I looked at you like you were crazy, you said, “I appreciate the mathematical precision and design of his work. I find the lines to be aesthetically pleasing – comforting.”

I laughed and you were so confused, had no idea why I thought your answer was so funny.  “Good to know, but I was asking your favorite _artist_ – like band, singer.  Music.”

You looked a great deal less certain, and I considered telling you that you didn’t have to answer except you told me you’d never listened to much music, and the stuff you had heard was mostly classical.  I whistled, long and low. 

“Who is yours?” you asked. 

“Right now the Beatles are pretty good,” I told you.  You’d heard of them, of course – everyone has – but you couldn’t remember why and when I started to sing “Revolution” to you under my breath your eyes lit up, and you told me you’d heard it on the radio, once, when you were studying late at night. 

You told me I had a nice voice.

We kept talking – or, actually, I kept talking at you and you leaned back in your seat and listened to me tell you about Pike, about San Francisco and all the crazy shit that’s happened there over the past decade or so. You listened, and you even almost smiled once or twice and by the time I finally got around to asking you what city you were from, you’d fallen asleep and we were flying over the eastern foothills of the Rocky Mountains. 

Out the window the clouds are passing beneath us; they cast shadows on the ground far below, leaving some farms in darkness.   We used to have sunflowers at the farm, back in Iowa, back before I left it behind and got away from the house haunted by my father’s memory. I remember that their blossoms would turn towards the sun, and as it traveled through the sky so would the flowers, moving in tandem.  I’m not sure why I thought of that.  It seems important. 

Your face is peaceful in sleep, you know that? The hard lines of your brow soften and your eyelashes flutter sometimes when your eyes move. Your lips are parted slightly, and – what would it be like to touch them?  To feel the strong line of your cheekbone underneath my palm? Trail my fingers down to your clavicle and trace its ridge, taste it under my tongue?

I can hear them now, you know.  Hear the words that have followed me around since I first looked at a video of Elvis the wrong way, since Gary, since the bars and the hushed words and the damp knees in back alleys and the way their hands would wrap around my mouth to keep the cries inside. 

What would it be like, to live in a world like the one for which they’re advocating?  To walk down the street and not be careful of how close you’re standing next to someone else, to be able to kiss on corners? 

You’ll never see this.  You can’t, because if you knew, you wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t fight with me. None of them would.

So I’m going to stop.  I’m going to stop thinking about the way your fingers squeezed mine on the table the day Apollo changed the world.  I’m going to stop thinking about the moon, and how it shone bright in the sky during bivouac.  About how your skin reminds me of its craters and its fine, fine earth.  How your eyes are like the mud under my nails – raw, somehow, a reminder of how I’m unclean. How I’ll never be clean.  So I’ll forget it, this thing I have for your bones that seems to rest deep in mine.  I’ll forget that I feel like the ocean to your moon.  I’ll forget, and I’ll become the sun.  But for now, you’re sleeping, and I think I can watch for just a little longer.


	26. August 16, 1969

We got into Fort Benning early yesterday – we’d had to lay over in Austin before we could connect, and our flight out got delayed by a thunderstorm. Reception battalion was essentially the same; we received fatigues, sweats, shirts, and Uhura got shit from the Major until he realized who she was. They’d called ahead from Lewis.

We kept the same battle buddies unless we’d been split.  Gary had apparently gone to aviation training; Spock said he’d been talking about parachuting.  Launch school isn’t easy, and it’s a real dangerous job, especially in this war. I caught myself wondering how he was doing, but didn’t let myself ask Spock anything else.  I didn’t owe Gary anything. 

Regardless, Spock and I got paired together after the Major looked at our respective files. I guess they really do record everything in there – the hand-to-hand fight and our couple successful night ops were both listed. 

“Looks like you two gentlemen have been put on the watchlist for commission,” the Major said, sizing us up.  “You boys play your cards right, who knows?  Might just get lucky.”

I know I should be thankful to get Spock as my buddy, but I can’t help but feel like it’s some sort of cruel joke.  Gotta give me a bunch of other reasons to look at him, hope he doesn’t see anything queer in my eyes.  He won’t, though. He won’t, because I won’t let him. I will become the sun.

Our unit is smaller, here, than it was back at Lewis, but I guess that makes sense.  All the guys can’t stop talking about where we might be assigned once we get our orders – what regiments are based where, that sort of thing.  It’s fucking exhausting, and I wish they’d give it a rest.

The schedule they handed us at Reception promises a really brutal few weeks; they’re pushing up the schedule for the training, and the course (which would usually take six weeks) is going to be done in half time. We’re skipping over weapons specialization in a few areas the government doesn’t consider important, because there aren’t enough of them on the lines to yield any practical usage. “Learn ‘em when you get over there,” that’s what the Captain said when he was running over the outline. A few of the men grumbled and shifted in their seats, until the Captain shouted out, “You all got a problem with that, or do you want to start your day with fifty push-ups?” They quieted down after that. 

We’ll also be skipping over some areas of vehicle operation and maintenance, seeing as the majority of the terrain in Vietnam is heavy, dense jungle and generally requires transportation by foot.  The army’s aviation unit will fly us in to any areas we need to be; we’ll be hoofing it from there. 

Spock’s fingers twitched nervously on his leg throughout much of the Captain’s introduction.  By the time we retired to the barracks to unpack our things, he seemed to have calmed down, but I still had to ask. 

“Hey, you all right?  Something getting to you?”

He glanced over at me as he made his bed with neat military corners. “I do not believe they are doing the right thing.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, furtively glancing over at his bed to see how he made the sheets so tidy and crisp.  I’d never quite been able to manage it. 

“They will be sending us into the field with inadequate training,” Spock said, stepping away from his bed and raising an eyebrow at my own meager attempts at something inspection-ready. 

“I’m sure it’ll be good enough,” I said, shoving one of the blankets down a bit too far and rumpling the surface of the bed.  “It’s not like they _want_ us to die; they’ve poured enough money into our training.”

“Jim,” Spock said softly, sounding on the verge of laughter. He pried the blanket away from me with long, slender fingers, and began to make my bed.

“You don’t have to do that,” I protested, but I couldn’t stop watching the way his hands tucked the flat sheet down underneath the mattress, followed it with the thin, scratchy blanket they gave us despite the Georgia heat.

“It is nothing,” Spock said, and stepped back to his own bedside just as the Sergeant entered the room for inspection. 

As soon as the Sergeant passed out of the barracks again, Spock sat down on the edge of his bed and turned to me.  “They are not teaching us proper usage of no less than four weapons, and their excuse for exempting our battalion from vehicle operations training is thin. I am merely concerned that some of the men may be unprepared for what they will face at war.”

I studied his face, the soft ridge of his brow bone, the furrows scoring his forehead.  “You said you were from a military family.  Where did your dad serve?”

“One tour in Europe, one in Korea,” he said. “He was among the men on the beach at Normandy, and at Inchon, Usan, Chipyong-ni.  Bloody Ridge,” he added, and it might have sounded like an afterthought, except I knew that it wasn’t.

I froze.  “What regiment?”

“Ninth Infantry.” 

“My dad was in the 38th.  He died at Bloody Ridge.” 

“I know,” Spock said, staring at the ground so intently it looked like he wanted it to swallow him. 

“Did your father-”

Spock shook his head.  “He did not speak at length about his time overseas.”

“Right.”  Silence fell between us, interspersed with the sounds of the men preparing for sleep, laughter, and the occasional whoop.  Nobody paid us any mind.

“Well, how’s that for fate, then?” I said, trying to smile and almost managing it. 

“Do you believe in fate?” Spock asked, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes were drawn, brow crumpled as if in sorrow. 

“I think shit happens,” I said carefully.  “And I think that, if it gives someone comfort to believe in God or think there’s some larger plan written in the stars… well, there’s nothing wrong with that.  Nothing wrong with believing in destiny.” 

“You did not answer my question.” 

“Maybe if we make it back, I’ll give you an answer.” 

He nodded and turned back to his bed, resettling his single pillow, and the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. 

“What about you?”

Spock hesitated.  “I believe we all have a… _best_ destiny. It is not the only one; our choices and free will create a limitless amount of universes, of different paths we all may take.”

“Is this ours, then?” I asked.  “Our first, best destiny?”

His eyes met mine again, and I felt something tumble in my chest – my heart squeezed tight once, twice. 

“I do not believe any person deserves the fate of a soldier,” he said, so quietly that if I hadn’t been watching his lips, I may not have known he was speaking. 

“Maybe not,” I said, “but there are some things worth fighting for.”

He nodded.  “Yes. Maybe there are.”


	27. August 20, 1969

I would feel bad about basically stealing Jansen’s chess set if not for the fact that, now Bones is gone, Spock and I are playing nightly chess games during our hour of free time before bed.  The men have grown to expect it, and they’ve started to place wagers on the outcome. We’re so evenly matched it’s become a real game for the others – they usually bet cigarettes, and the winners will always spit their profits with either Spock or me.  Since Spock doesn’t smoke, I always end up with some cigarettes at the end of the night, and it’s a pretty good deal. 

I do miss being able to just talk with him, though, like we used to do back in basic.  We didn’t always talk, sure – we didn’t, more often than not; when we did, though, it was always good. Interesting.  I felt like I was being shown some part of this man that nobody else had ever seen, and that was something else entirely.

Sulu and Chekov usually hover as we play, watching us, and I’m not sure if they’re trying to pick up the game or just looking for tips or if Chekov’s hero-worship of Spock extends to rec time.  Spock had glared at me when I brought it up at breakfast one morning.

“It is not hero worship, Jim,” he said, scowling.  “I do not believe I am the one whom Chekov admires.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?  Jesus, you’re always so cryptic,” I muttered, but my tone was fond, and Spock could tell.

“Chekov greatly admires your skills, although he would not have you know it.” Spock paused to sip his tea – shitty, black stuff, bitter as hell because there was rarely any sugar stocked in the mess.  “He and Sulu have been referencing you as “the Captain” in private for some weeks now, since bivouac.”

“They _what_?”

“I believe it is a nickname,” Spock deadpanned, and I wanted to hit him. The way his eyebrows shift slightly when he says a joke – it’s unbelievably attractive.

“Yeah, Spock, I know what a nickname is, but – why on _earth-_ ”

“You have a certain… pull,” Spock said, eyes firmly focused on his plate. “The men appreciate your company, and your command.”

“Stupid,” I muttered.  “They’re all idiots. I’m nothing special – just a Midwest fuck-up with no other options.” 

Spock shrugged, and we went back to eating.  I let the subject rest. 

We were on fire guard yesterday, shirts sticking to our backs as we watched the stars pass overhead in the humid Georgia night.  We’d just completed rounds of the barracks and would have to be going back through in another twenty minutes, but it felt nice to sit, to lean back and take the world in – quiet, peaceful.  It was really late – probably three in the morning, but I wasn’t tired.  I’ve always had a hard time sleeping. 

“May I ask a personal question?” Spock said suddenly, and I almost jumped. He hadn’t spoken a word since we’d started our shift, and I was growing accustomed to his pensive silence.

“Shoot,” I said, tracing circles in the dirt of the compound.

Spock hesitated.  “I have been wondering about what you said at breakfast.  Why do you hold such a low opinion of yourself?  You are one of the most intelligent people I have ever met.”

I laughed, but the sound was bitter and cold.  “That’s nice of you.” 

“I do not joke.”

“I know,” I said quietly.  “I know.”

Silence stretched between us for another two minutes before I finally spoke.

“I’m pretty messed up, Spock.  Have been for a long time.  I got hooked on the hard stuff out of high school and I couldn’t afford to go to college, so it just got worse. I moved out to San Francisco looking for a second chance but _it just got worse_.  I couldn’t get off it.  My paychecks weren’t going to anything useful, like savings, or, you know, school. I spent all the money I had that wasn’t rent money on drugs.  And I told you about Pike, but – he helped me through it, and I’d been clean for about five months before I got the letter.

“But I’m not-” I struggled with the words, because I wanted to tell him everything, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t.  “I did some bad shit, you know, to get a fix.  Some really fucking bad shit, and I don’t know if I can ever come back from that.  And I think, I think if I had the stuff in front of me again, right there and ready for me to take, I don’t think I’d say no.  I’m not strong enough to say no again.” 

“Jim-”

“It’s not our abilities that define us, Spock, it’s our choices. And I’ve made so many bad choices they could fill a book.” 

Spock fell silent.  “We are the products of our circumstances.  You cannot be sure another person would have done any better, given the same set of options.”

I just shook my head.  “Says the man from the military family who went to – where did you even go? Were you Ivy?”

“Yale,” Spock breathed, eyes fixed on an indeterminate point across the yard.

“So who are you to tell me I’m better than I am, Spock?  You have no idea what it’s like.  Don’t you dare pretend to know me.”  My voice had risen near the end and I willed my heart rate to slow, because I was getting angry and it was late and I didn’t want a fight.

Spock didn’t speak for at least five minutes, and then he stood – it was time to do rounds.

“You are right, and I am sorry,” he said quietly, speaking to the ground. “I know nothing of your life before this point, and I cannot pretend to know what it was like for you.”

I huffed in agreement and picked my rifle up off the ground, taking Spock’s outstretched hand and letting him pull me to my feet.

“Jim,” Spock said, and he hadn’t let go of my hand yet. It was drawn tight to his chest, against his ribcage, and there was too little space between us – I could smell his peppermint toothpaste on the air.  “I do not care what you may have done in the past.  I respect you, as do the other men, for who you are now.” He let go of my hand, and I wanted to take it back in mine, feel the texture of his skin. 

“Sorry,” I whispered, because his words cut at something deep inside and I knew he didn’t deserve my anger.

“There is nothing to forgive.” 

I remember, once, Pike telling me that the army was like a blank slate. You went in and if you did your job right, it didn’t matter who you’d once been. 

“War can make a bad man a hero, because he’s got an excuse for violence. They give him medals when he brings back scalps,” he’d said.  “But you gotta remember, Jim, that war can turn good men into something else entirely. A good man goes off to war; you might not know him by the time he gets back.  And that’s the danger of the army – it gives a man a chance to reinvent himself, to make something of himself. 

“But they never tell you what to do when you come back and you don’t know who you are anymore.  When a simple thing like going to the corner store for a pack of smokes starts to feel like a recon mission.  They don’t tell you about how the fireworks on the Fourth will sound like mortar shells. How a good man can look at his hands and see bloodstains that won’t come out.” 

I’m not a good man.  I never was.


	28. August 23, 1969

The past few days have been taken up with advanced training on guns outside the basic M16, some more work with grenades and basically everything else they can think to strap to our backs.  

Today, though, was minefield day.  We spent a whole eight fucking hours learning how to stumble through different types of terrain without killing ourselves - or so they told us, I’m not entirely sure it was as comprehensive as it could have been.  I kept thinking about Spock, about what he’d said when we first got our schedules, and I knew that he was thinking the same thing at my side.  

Chekov is having a bit of a tough time keeping up with the intensive schedule, and he was nodding off during a couple of the Majors’ presentations.  Sulu kept nudging him in the side, trying to keep him awake, and he would shake his head a little bit and sit up straight for two minutes before slumping again.  I brought him a cup of coffee at lunch.  I've never really seen him drinking it - he always said he preferred tea, but I figured it might help keep him awake for the afternoon session.  

“Thank you,” was all he said as I set it by his tray, nodding at me and returning his gaze to his plate.  Spock’s thigh brushed mine in what I suspected was something like approval.  

“You’re welcome, kid,” I said, digging into my mystery meat with everything I had, trying to keep my mind off its texture.  

Chekov drained half the cup of coffee in one go, grimacing.  “I wish zey would allow us alcohol.  Vodka, now, zat would help.”  

Sulu laughed, muttered, “damn crazy Russian,” and ruffled Chekov’s hair, which earned him a scowl.  

“We will reach our final phase of training in two days,” Spock said.  “I believe they will allow units to visit local venues.”  

“Nice,” Sulu said appreciatively as Uhura sat down next to him.  “We should go out, once they finally let us.  Together.  Could be fun.”  

I shrugged.  “I’ll never say no to a drink.”  

“It won’t be the same, without McCoy,” Scotty said from where he had dropped, straight across from Uhura, into an open seat.  “Pity he’s stuck all the way out in Fort Worth.”  

“Reminds me, I should write him.  See what’s been going on.”  

“You haven’t written him yet?” Scotty asked, bewildered.  “You were attached at the bloody hip for weeks, man!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a terrible friend, lay off,” I said, laughing.  “He hasn’t been crawling through ditches and underneath barbed wire while trying to handle an M16.”

“Aye, I suppose that’s true,” Scotty conceded.  

“I don’t know about you boys, but I’m feeling just fine,” Uhura said, making a motion with her head like she was tossing hair out of her face, even though it had been cut for two months.  “Could probably go another ten miles, easy, if they asked us.” 

“Are you even human?” Sulu asked her, eyes narrow.  “I don’t think you are.  There’s no way you aren’t feeling just as shitty as the rest of us.  I wrote my sisters yesterday telling them that, if I hadn’t written again in three days, they could safely assume I had _died._ ”  

“Don’t be melodramatic,” was all she said.  

“I swear, Uhura, give the army a regiment of women like you and the war would be won in a week,” I said, shaking my head.  After seeing her handle the men throughout training, it amazes me that they don’t allow women on the front lines.  

(And, even with the reasoning she gave us - the letter, the proposed prison sentence - it wasn’t enough to send a woman to war.  There is still something we are missing, some critical part of her story we haven't heard yet.  But I’m a patient man.  I’ll wait.) 

“Who says they want it won?” Uhura murmured, staring at the prongs of her fork with an intensity I only saw from her when she was on the field with a gun in her hands.  

“What do you mean?” Sulu asked.  

Spock spoke up. “She is speaking of the military-industrial complex.  War is a profitable industry for this country, the same one that resuscitated the nation during the Great Depression.  It is logical for industry to remain in the war.”  

“People are dying,” Chekov said, nonplussed.  

“Don’t think they much care, Pasha, so long’s their pockets are lined at the end of the day,” Sulu said.  

“I don’t like it,” Chekov muttered to his plate.  “Zis war.”  

“Nobody does,” I sighed.

“Zis Cold War,” Chekov clarified.  “Fighting by proxy - us and ze Soviets, and all I get for my loyalty is jibes and shifty eyes.”  

“If they hadn’t wanted you in this war, Chekov, you wouldn’t be in it,” I said.  “You can’t let them take that away from you.”  

“I gave up everything for zis,” Chekov said slowly.  “I vould have gone to MIT, but I thought… everyone thinks ze Russians are ze bad guys.  Zey would hear ze accent, and I became Stalin to zem.  I was not an equal.  I thought if I came back wiz medals on my chest, perhaps zey would see.  Perhaps zey would see zat we are not all ‘dirty commies,’ and I could be what I haf always wanted to be - an American.”

“Hey,” Sulu whispered, grabbing Chekov’s shoulder.  “Hey, remember what I told you about my parents?  Remember that?  They might think you’re not an American, but you know they’re wrong, okay?  They’re just plain wrong.”  

Spock had quirked one eyebrow and Uhura was watching the exchange with fascination.  Sulu noticed.  

“My parents were in Manzanar together.  That’s where they met.  So I know a bit of what it’s like, to not be considered a citizen in your own country.  _Shikata ga nai_ , Pasha.  _Shikata ga nai_.”

“What’s the translation?” Scotty asked. 

“It cannot be helped,” Sulu said, standing and gathering up his tray.  

I thought about that, all day.  Here I am, full-blooded Americana, born and bred in fucking Iowa of all places, the archetype of Midwest living.  I can’t fathom it - choosing to join this war to prove something to myself, to my peers, to my country.  What would that be like, to wear it on your skin - a flaw that runs that deep?  So deep you can’t change it, can’t change who you are?

I know a bit about that sort of flaw, about something that sits in the hardware of a man’s body.  They tell me I can’t help it, but I don’t know if I believe them.  Don’t know if there isn’t something out there that might cure me, might make it different.  

_Hey, Bones?  Got a remedy up your sleeve, something old and south-grown to make me stop thinking about the slope of a man’s ass, or how their muscles feel underneath mine?  Got something to make me stop thinking about being bent over an army cot and being taken by a man with sloped eyebrows and eyes that could pierce steel? What about brainwashing, would that do it?  What about a bullet in the chest?_

_And hey, while you’re at it, why not something else to dull the grind and the pain of the trenches and the mud?  The backlash of a rifle against my arm,_ bang bang bang _goes the gun and the bullets pepper the target - one, two, three, head shot, kneecap, heart.  Hang me up for target practice and when my shirt grows soaked and tattered you can leave me out to dry._

_Ah, Bones, I could kill for a drink right now, a pull from your father’s flask.  Booze always tastes better when it ain’t yours.  And tell me, if it’s this bad here, what then?  Hey?  I keep screaming to God,_ make it stop, make it stop _and I can’t ever hear him but I think he might be laughing.  I think he might be laughing._

_What then?  What happens if I can’t scrub it from the surface of my bones,  like Sulu can’t scrape away his skin and Chekov can’t tame his tongue?  I worry I’ll do something stupid, Bones.  I think I’ll do something real, real stupid._

_But you aren’t ever gonna read this, so what does it matter, in the end?  Shikata ga nai, Bones.  Shikata ga nai._


	29. August 26, 1969

Note to self:  

Jim - don’t ever go out drinking with Scotty ever again.  Don’t do it.  It’s going to sound like a great idea, but it’s not.  You know it’s not.  

Don’t try to keep up with Uhura, either.  You have no idea how she managed to drink you under the table, but it looks like she’s the only one that can keep up with the scotch that must run in Scotty’s veins.  You aren’t sure when you ended up getting too drunk to speak clearly anymore, but you know it was about the same time she was starting to get tipsy.  

Remember that Chekov might look young, but can throw back double vodkas with the best of them.  Remember that he giggles when he gets drunk and you want to be able to recall that clearly, next time.  

Spock has filled you in on some of the finer points that you may have missed as you were working on your twelfth drink - he had three and stopped, because he’s responsible.  You’re not, Jim.  Bones would be ashamed of you.  You know this.

Regardless, Spock took it upon himself to fill you in, which you’re pretty grateful for, so don’t say anything rude to him over the next few days because the shit he told you was priceless.  

You all were talking about your girls back home.  That’s what he tells you, and you believe it, because you trust him.  You think you remember how the conversation went down: 

“Yeah, mine’s going to UC Berkeley,” Sulu said, grinning, flushed with pride - or maybe it was booze, you can’t exactly remember.  The lighting was too dim.  “She’s sharp as a tack; she wants to be a lawyer.”  

Uhura whistled and said, “Ambitious.  Sounds like a real keeper, Karu.”  

You’re not sure when you all started calling him Karu, but it’s a good nickname.  You like it. 

“How ‘bout you?” Sulu asked Chekov, nudging him in the ribs.  “Tell us about her.”  

“Ah,” Chekov said, blushing.  “I had a girl in high school, but after ze war picked up… her brother shipped out, and he was killed.  She did not want to be together, after zat.”  

“She’s missin’ out,” Sulu had slurred, ruffling Chekov’s hair and slinging an arm around his shoulders.  

“Karu,” Chekov admonished, and turned towards Scotty expectantly. 

“Well,” he said, looking uncomfortable.  “I had… oh, I don’ know, do I?  She was somethin’ else, an’ she was always too good for me.  We kinda stopped seein’ each other, after my first arrest, but she called me up before I shipped out.  It was a good night, in all,” he said.  You think his expression was lecherous.  Spock says you laughed.  

And so they asked you, like you knew they would.  You probably wondered if you could lie, create a beautiful girl to shift suspicion.  You probably thought about it and then decided you were too damn drunk to lie convincingly and so you just said, “Nah.  Never been the type.”  You probably realized the words came out wrong, and so you hastily tacked on, “For relationships, I mean.  Never been the type.”  

Spock’s eyebrows had furrowed from where he sat next to you, and you think you remember your heart hammering in your ribcage - pathetic, betraying you, but you were telling the truth, _you_ _told the truth_.  And maybe you imagined the terrible silence that followed afterwards, that seemed to stretch on for an age, because Spock just asked, “You do not engage in romantic relationships?”  

“Not my style,” is all you’d said, burying your face in your pint glass and trying to escape the world.  “What about you, Spock?” you asked, trying to turn the attention away from yourself, trying to correct the mistake because you think they know, now.  You think they know.  

Spock shook his head.  “I was always preoccupied with my studies.  Like you, Jim, I was not the type.”  

(You know it’s to be expected.  Tell yourself there is no significance to his words, carry on with your life, don’t let them scroll through your head like a fucking marquee.)

You remember turning to Uhura.  “Well, anyone special back home for you?” 

(Don’t let yourself remember the way Uhura was staring at you, like you were a jigsaw puzzle to be put together, like she wanted to dissect you and figure out the parts that comprised your body - like she knew them already.  Like she knew something.  Like she knew. )

“Yeah,” she said, throwing back another shot of whiskey and you watched her throat bob.  

“Tell us about him,” Sulu said, leaning into Chekov as he swayed in his seat.  

Uhura smiled - small, sad, maybe the most heartbreaking thing you’ve ever seen.  “I don’t know-“

“Aw, come on, what’s he look like?” Scotty asked.  

“Blond hair, blue eyes, slim,” she said, staring down at the table.  “Beautiful.”

You think your brain stuttered to a halt, because - 

“What’s his name?” Chekov asked. 

“Christine.  Her name’s Christine.”  

_Oh._  

(Remind yourself that there’s people out there that have it worse.  Remind yourself that Uhura was sent to the army not because she was a black woman arrested in Georgia for civil rights protests, but because she is a lesbian, because they knew and wanted to make an example of her, because if there’s anything worse than a gay person, it’s a gay black feminist.  Remember you aren’t alone.)  

“You’re a…?” Scotty began, but he didn’t seem able to finish the thought, and Uhura stole his scotch and drank it down.  

“Yeah.  You got a problem with that?” she asked and her voice was all fight, all challenge, and you couldn’t imagine someone wanting to say anything.  

Spock tells you everyone at the table shook their heads.  

And maybe you’re imagining things, but you think she looked straight at you when she said, “I’m not ashamed of it.  She’s amazing, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Do you… have you ever tried it with a guy?” Sulu asked tentatively.  

“I like guys just fine,” Uhura said.  “But I like girls too.”  

You remember thinking, _you’re allowed to do that_? But Spock says you said it out loud. 

“I don’t know if I’m allowed, I just know it’s what it is,” Uhura said, and you’d gone to buy everyone another round because it was too much, too much, and you needed to get away.  

Spock tells you he had to half-carry you from the bar about an hour later.  You don’t remember that, but you forget a lot of things when you drink.  

(You think you might have been humming when he led you back from the bar.  You can’t remember what you might have been singing, but you woke up this morning with “I Want to Hold Your Hand” stuck in your head and that worries you a lot.  That worries you an awful lot.)


	30. August 29, 1969

Christopher Pike

170 First Ave 

Enterprise, OR 97828

 

August 15

 

Dear Jim,

Thanks for sending your last letter, it was real nice to hear from you again.  I can’t say I’ve missed seeing you around, because that’s not possible, but I have missed talking to you.  I know that the army’s keeping you out of trouble, but sometimes I worry about you, kid.  I just want to make sure you’re doing all right.  

I couldn’t stop laughing at what you wrote.  I know the men in my unit had personalities, but times sure have changed if they’re letting a woman into the ranks.  I’m sure she can take care of herself, like you said, but - ah, you know.  Watch out for her.  I can’t tell you half of what men do in war, but I think you know.  

And what’s this about a Mr Spock?  There was a man in Korea - he was in another regiment but he had a very strange name - Sarek.  Mr Sarek.  A few of the men thought he was a spy, since he would never give his full name, and he had a strange accent.  But Sarek always just said we wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.  I’m not sure if he ever had a kid, or if he had one when he went to war.  We didn’t keep in touch.  He stayed when I got shipped out with that damn spinal injury a couple months after your father’s death.  I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except - hey, maybe they’re related.  Who knows?  The world is a lot smaller than we’d all like to think.

Which brings me up to why I’ve really written you.  Son, I won’t be in contact for a little while, probably a few weeks at the very least.  I got a request from the Department of Defense.  They’re asking for assistance overseas - since the Tet Offensive, there’s been some storms brewing with command.  There are also rumors circulating about one regiment in particular, but I can’t get more into that.  I’m sure it’d be redacted if I did.  

I’ve led a nice life here, Jim - twenty years tucked away in a small Oregon town is about the best a vet can ask for.  And I know you’ll be mad as hell when you read this, but I want you to know that I’m going not because they asked me, but because… well, who am I to do any less?  I have a duty to my country, the same one your father and I both felt when we enlisted all those years ago.  There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.  I know I’ve told you this before, but he was the one who wanted to join up.  Your father was always the brave one, and I think that if our positions had been reversed - if I had died, and he had lived - your father wouldn’t have shirked his duty.  He would have been in this war five years ago, and he would have been proud to serve his country.  

I can’t let him down, Jim.  He’s probably been up in heaven somewhere for the past few years, screaming his head off at me to put on the uniform again, to help in the only way I can.  And since I can’t fight anymore, I’ll be a tactician.  There are boys like you laying down their lives, just like your father did when he saved our regiment - and others, besides.  I can’t continue on here, tucked back between mountains in a town that hardly shows up on the map.  

Your father, you know - he always fought for something greater than himself.  He believed in America - in the idea of America.  And I’m not talking democracy versus communism or any of the propaganda bullshit they’re throwing at us these days.  What your father used to talk about, was the fact that he could grow up during one of the worst times this country’s ever seen, but as soon as Pearl Harbor happened the people just _awoke_.  And it wasn’t just the soldiers, but the women, the children, donating their toys for scrap metal, their rusty old bikes.  And how, after, we could recover from everything that had happened.  Everything that the government had done to keep us safe, we moved past it, we turned to the friendly atom and the refrigerator.  We could endure.

It was the idea that no matter what, if you made it to America, you were free, and you could live the way you wanted, be anything you wanted.  That a little boy born in a log cabin could one day become President of the United States.  Christ, I wish he’d lived to see Kennedy, because he would have smiled at that, Jim.  He would have smiled, because that dream is now more true than ever, after the past ten years.  I wish he’d lived to hear Martin Luther King.  I think he would have liked to hear him speak - _I have a dream_.  It was his dream, too.

Your father didn’t believe in no-win scenarios, Jim.  I know you’re sick of hearing it, but it’s true.  He always thought someone could grow to be something great here, given a chance.  America was always the land of opportunity for him, and that never changed.  It’s why he enlisted, why he kept fighting.  I never had such a good reason, but I’d like to think I’ve changed, that now I can fight the good fight, just like your father.  

So, don’t worry about me.  I can’t tell you where I’m going, but know that I’ll be safe. Well, as safe as an American can be in Vietnam, which I guess isn’t a very.  I hope you’re still doing all right.  I’m sure you are.  

Be open to it, Jim.  It’ll be the worst experience of your life, sure, but you’ve already started to see what can be found in the army - family.  I know you didn’t have much in that way growing up, but maybe you can find it there.  And don’t try to kid yourself, telling yourself that you aren’t worthy to be fighting alongside these men because of things you’ve done.  You don’t know their pasts, and yours… well, if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s you.  

Keep your head up, Jim, and I’ll see you when you get here.  

Love,

Pike


	31. September 1, 1969

“O Captain, my Captain!  Man, what’s got you down?” 

I shrugged.  It was too early to be fielding the “Captain” nickname, so I let it slide.  Next to me, I felt Spock smile - just a twitch of his lips, but the air around us changed slightly and I felt the mood lift.  

“I got a letter the other day from a family friend.” 

“Bad news?” Uhura asked, sitting down with us and eyeing her biscuit with distaste.  

“Sort of.  He fought with my dad, won a purple heart and everything but they want him back as an… advisor, I guess?  I’m just worried.”  

“I’m sure he’ll be all right, Jim,” Scotty said from where he’d taken a seat next to Uhura.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.”  I felt Spock’s eyes on the side of my head for another few moments before he turned back to his food.  It was too early to talk - Spock knows not to try and speak to me before I’ve had a cup of coffee in the mornings.  He’s smart like that.  

Of course, that didn’t get me out of questioning during fire guard.  It’s been consistently hot and humid here for the past week, and we were grateful to leave the stifling interior of the barracks and get out into the night air.  A lightning bug flashed by, within arm’s reach, and I smiled.  

“What is it?” Spock asked quietly - he’d seen the expression, of course, and I glanced over at him, grin still in place.  

“Nothing,” I said.  “Just - reminds me of home, is all.  Back in Iowa, we’d get lightning bugs all the time in the summer.  Sam and I…” I stopped.  

“Sam?” 

“My brother.  He - we don’t talk much, anymore.  We used to go around with mason jars and try to catch them.  He was always better at it than I was.  One night,” I laughed, “one night he got six in about a half hour, and Frank came out and started yelling at us, telling us to let them go and come back inside ‘cause we were out after bedtime.  We thought he was asleep.”  

Spock’s lips quirked in a quarter-smile.  “Do you miss him?” 

“Sometimes.  Yeah.”  A few more flew past us, and I felt brave, so I turned to him and asked, “Do you have any siblings?” 

“One,” Spock said.  “We don’t talk much anymore, either.  My father… disowned him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. 

“It is regrettable,” Spock admitted, staring resolutely at the wall of the neighboring building.  “But - what is, is.”  

“Why did he disown him?  If you don’t mind me asking.”  

“I do not,” Spock said, tearing his gaze away from the building and turning it on me.  I felt exposed.  “He wanted my brother to enlist.  My brother,” he paused, and let out a short huff that sounded almost like a laugh, “had other ideas.  He did not believe in war.”  

“One of those commune types?” I teased.  

“You could say that.” 

“Is that why you…?”

“In part, yes.”  

I nodded.  “Did you have lightning bugs, back home?” 

Spock smiled - a real, honest to god smile and I thought my chest was going to burst.  “We called them fireflies in upstate New York.  There were always many on my father’s estate during the summer months.  We would find them around the lake - but we never tried to catch them.  I thought they were beautiful.”  

“So you do find things beautiful, then?  Didn’t think you were much for aesthetic,” I joked. 

Spock followed the path of another lightning bug and his eyes locked with mine.  “I find many things to be beautiful.”  

It was strange - it felt, just then, like all the air had left my lungs, like I was breathing in water, like the time I tried to go swimming in the Pacific and almost got pulled away by the riptide.  It had been a beautiful day, but the winds were strong, and I swam out just a bit too far.  It was too early in the morning for anyone to be out and I remember feeling so helpless as I was pulled away from shore, my head shoved under the water, salt and spray filling up my lungs.  Uncontrollable panic, torn limbs and short breaths when my nose emerged, but my legs had filled with adrenaline more powerful than anything I’d ever felt.  I swam with it, then, arms pumping and I tried to make sure I knew what way was up amidst the foam and the current, and my limbs felt like they were both on fire and suspended in ice.  Terrifying, yet exhilarating - it felt that way, now.  

“Yeah?” was all I managed to say.  Spock’s skin looked smooth and pale in the light of the waning gibbous moon, his eyes dark craters where I could lose myself.  Their pull was like riptide.  A lightning bug landed on my leg, and I wanted to look at it, to rip it apart and figure out its electricity, to dissect it and find what made it go.  I wanted to take its charge and pump it into my blood so that I could _glow glow glow_ , so that I could become the sun, so that I could fuse and spark and become fire, dangerous to touch.  But what is water to a flame?  Indeed, it’s the only thing that matters, for oxygen only feeds a forest fire, dry tinder cracking in the heat of a California summer.  A fire will burn and burn and consume entire mountains until it reaches the sea, until a storm can come and dull its injury.  A fire will leave nothing but ash in its wake.

A fire makes room.  A fire is nature’s process, rebirth in its most elemental, stripping away the layers of undergrowth until only black soot remains, and buds can start to press through the wreckage.  A fire is dirty, it is smoke and burning lungs and bubbling skin.  

But after a fire comes the rain, and the way it steams on too-hot earth.  The way water fills the air with the weight of a Georgia summer.  

“Yeah,” Spock echoed, and I watched as he reached out into the space between our bodies.  I watched as, very, very carefully, he took my hand, entwined our fingers.  I watched his lips twist into something that, to him, may have been a shy grin, and I felt mine twist in response.  My heart was thudding in my fingertips like waves crashing on a California shore, like wood popping in a Sierra Nevada forest fire.  I felt exposed, skeleton and muscle and nerves, but Spock just turned away, smile still gracing his face, and focused on the watching the lighting bugs dance.  

They reminded me of stars.  


	32. September 3, 1969

It’s been three days, but we haven’t talked about it.  

Not like we’ve had time to talk about it, really.  It’s been _go go go_ now and we’re coming down to the end of the line with this training and there’s a weird sort of reluctance for it to end.  

Don’t get me wrong - the men are excited to go home, see their girls and their families before being sent off.  Those of us without real homes are still thrilled to not have to wake up at the crack of dawn each day, at least for a little while.  I am, at least.  I’ve never been much of a morning person, insomnia runs too deep in my blood and I can’t shake it off.  I look forward to the nights I’m on fire guard, because it gives me an excuse to be awake.  Sometimes I stare at the ceiling of the bunker, counting cracks in the planking, wishing they would combust above me, just so I’d have something bright to look at, if not the stars.  

The men are excited to go home, but there’s something else there.  Nobody’s talking about it, nobody ever does, but it’s like drinking cider that’s sat in the fridge a bit too long, and it’s gone from sweet to a little bitter.  Just a hard edge, enough to cut the front of your tongue.  That’s what it feels like, now, in the barracks, in the mess.  We work as a unit during ops, smoother than ever before, but it only serves as a reminder - training is over and soon, soon, we’ll be joining the rest of America’s men overseas, fighting the good fight.  

Those of us who hadn’t come to terms with our mortality earlier are now starting to see it in the only way that matters.  I’ve seen four new bibles in the past two days, and Evans was kneeling at his cot with a rosary before bed yesterday.  He was on his third decade.  

I realized today that I haven’t been to confession in a long, long time. 

What score do they have to settle with the big man upstairs?  What would I say?  I used to think those boxes kept secrets, words pressed into the wood.  When I was a kid, I’d go in and I could feel their weight around me, almost like the weight of God, but it felt unclean.  I thought God shouldn’t feel like that, but I never felt anything else in those musty old pews, sunlight filtering through stained glass.  What would I have said, back then?  Would I have talked about the eraser I stole from Jimmy Boyle back in the third grade, or the kiss I snuck Maria Wallace on the basketball court after school?  

I never told the box about Elvis, about the thoughts that were too dirty to speak even to a partition made from maplewood and smelling of oil and incense.  I left my cross at home when I started middle school, and I didn’t ever look back.  I pawned it when I turned nineteen.  Traded in the only thing I’d ever been given by Winona for cash to buy a quick high, traded God for a back alley fix and a night of forgetfulness.  

Would he hear my confession?  Would my words stain the maplewood until it’s driftwood, dark and brine-stained, drifting in an ocean of sin?  The small latched door, become a hatchback, heavy with the weight of the sea and the promise of adventure over the horizon, just around the next corner, just ahead in the next bar. 

Would I tell him that I’m living on borrowed time?  That they should have killed me, back along the river where the corn fields met the quarry, back in the ravine with the shallow lake and the diving rock?  What could I tell him?  _There was a quarry, and rocks, and he fell, Father, he just -_

Is that what I’d tell him?  Would I be absolved?  

But the men are praying every night, waiting, waiting, holding a breath and hoping the wind doesn’t catch it.  I wonder if it’s possible to feel God, like some people say.  What it’d be like, to hear Him speak to you - but that’s fantastic, and what would it be, a disembodied voice?  They have words and places for folk like that.  How fine is the line between madness and sanity!  How slight the wind - north-north-west it blows, and I think I know my bones, but I can’t be sure.  They’re just words, words, words.  

I’m not sure Spock believes in God.  I’ve never seen him with a bible, never so much as seen him make the sign of the cross.  

We’ve played chess, and our fingers brush every now and then, when he reaches too fast to move his knight after I’ve just moved a pawn, and every time it’s like electricity between our skin.  A jumpstart, a spark.  

“Do you believe in God?” I asked him earlier, keeping my voice down because folk don’t look kindly on atheists.  They aren’t to be trusted - but then again, neither are queers.  

Spock’s lips twitched as he moved his queenside rook.  “Why do you ask?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I rolled my eyes, bending my neck to reference the rest of the room.  Four of the men were putting on an impromptu bible study in the corner.  “Just a thought.” 

He definitely looked entertained when he answered, “I had not given it much thought.” 

I didn’t quiet believe him, and when he asked me, I didn’t give him a straight answer, either.  We cleaned up and as I got into bed I felt my pillow crackle, like there was a paper in its covering.  Written in neat, clean script - devoid of flourishes, like something that could come out of a machine, was -

“I have no need of God; you hold the stars in your hands.”

Seven stars, it says, and I think of Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Bones, Spock.  Myself.  Revelation may have forgotten us, but what does it matter?  We hold the heavens in our hands, and the rest?  It’s simply words.


	33. September 7, 1969

I don’t remember much about graduating from high school.  I think I was a nice mix of drunk and high - our robes might’ve been a deep blue color, but I didn’t keep mine.  A month or so before the ceremony, they asked me if I’d make a speech.  I looked at our principal - I can’t recall his name - and I laughed, asked him why the hell he thought I’d be wanting to speak at graduation. 

(We hadn’t always gotten on well.)

He’d looked at me like I was something from another planet and said, “James, you’re the Valedictorian of your senior class.  It’s tradition for the Valedictorian to make a speech.” 

I stood up, rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck and walked out of his office, calling out “How ‘bout you check in with whoever was runner-up?” behind me.

Why didn’t I want to speak, then?  Five years ago and I can’t remember it for the life of me, what that girl had said up there at the podium, something inspiring and motivating, no doubt.  I remember the weight of the cords around my shoulders, even if I can’t remember exactly what they looked like - it felt like responsibility.  That wasn’t ever something I wanted.  I don’t think I wanted the responsibility of leading my class into a bright and new future that I wasn’t gonna be a part of.  I wanted to run far away from the corn and the quarries and the open, empty sky.  In the end, I ran all the way across the country and it still wasn’t far enough.  

I think I might be more okay with responsibility, now.  I know what a team is, and I know how to lead one - if I’d gone to officer school, I could have made a damn good second lieutenant, I think.  But why would I want a career from an institution of war?  Death, destruction, disease, horror.  That’s what war is.  

It’s graduation day and nobody was asked to give a speech.  Nobody said much at all as we pulled on our army greens and looked at the new patches on some, the crisp, boxed corners of the shoulders.  When they handed out our placements, nobody felt like talking: the Americal Division, otherwise known (officially) as the 23rd Infantry.  Suddenly it was real, suddenly the papers were in our hands and we were staring down at our futures.  

It’s graduation day and Spock and I are leaving training with E-3 status - Private First Class; Uhura and Sulu scored E-2.  Some of the men bitched about Uhura until our unit commander shut them up, because she is here and she is a good fucking soldier.  I think the men are sore about being beaten by a girl, but fuck if I’m not proud of her for taking it.  She’s stronger than I’ll ever be.  

It’s graduation day and they gave us our orders.  There’s usually a few months in between basic and deployment, but they need their reinforcements.  We get a week.  A week to go home, to get our affairs in order, say goodbye again - maybe for the last time.  We get a week and then we report to Fort Lewis to ship out.  Seven days and I haven’t heard from Bones but I’m sure he’s gonna be there; I’m sure of it.  

It’s graduation day and we went to drink.  Chekov bullied Spock and I into buying the first two rounds because of our promotions, but we didn’t mind.  I’d have done it anyways.  We found a table in the back corner of the bar, a booth surrounded by a few chairs and Spock slid into the leather seat next to me, his thigh pressed tight against mine.  

“So, who’s got plans for their vacation?” I asked, trying to smile, trying to break the ice.  It was a night for celebration.  It was a night for forgetting.  

Uhura grinned, slow and wide, and Scotty took one look at her and burst into laughter.  The rest of us followed, with the singular exception of Spock, who just smiled into his gin and tonic.  

“All right, all right, that’s fair,” I said when I could breathe again.  

“Not a lot of time for much ‘sides sayin’ goodbye,” Scotty said.  

“You know what?” Sulu said, tipping his vodka back and slamming the glass on the table.  “Let’s - let’s just not talk about it.  Let’s just get really fucking drunk.”

Chekov produced a pack of cards from nowhere and we started up a game of poker, which rapidly degenerated into a drinking game where you took a shot every time you lost a round or had to fold.  Uhura and Chekov were the only two consistently winning rounds, and the rest of us were having trouble seeing our cards correctly about an hour and a half in.  Space at the table was cramped, and without really noticing, I’d hooked my ankle around Spock’s sometime after my eighth drink.  I was trying so hard - so fucking hard - not to look at him, because I knew that if I did, it would give me away.  I’m never much of a poker player once the drinks start flowing, and Sam always used to say I was an open book.  

It was nearing 1 AM when I finally stood and said, “Sorry, guys, I’d - I’d better be going.  Can’t see straight anymore.”  I remember swaying slightly on my feet and Spock caught my elbow.  

“I will come with you,” Spock said, helping me from the booth.  

I think Uhura’s eyebrows might have reached her hairline and I leaned over to ruffle her hair.  “Shut up, Nyota,” I slurred, and she laughed.  “See you boys back at barracks,” I said to the table at large.  Scotty, Chekov, and Sulu waved me off, but not before I saw Sulu throw me a wink and a dirty look.  I thanked god I was drunk so that nobody could see me flush.  

“Hey, come on, I can walk on my own,” I protested as Spock wrapped one arm around my waist and arranged mine over his shoulders.  

“I am aware,” Spock said, and I quieted real fast.  _Oh._ So we were gonna talk about it now.  I was suddenly, painfully aware of the heat of his body next to mine, the way his fingers dipped into the hollow just below my hipbone.  The air outside was warm, so warm, and I felt the humidity coalescing into drops of sweat that rolled down my spine, down to the curve of my back where they ran into the strong line of Spock’s arm.  

“Here,” I nodded in the darkness towards a copse of trees on the edge of the bivouac field.  Lightning bugs winked in the dark and I remembered that there was a pond nearby.  They like the water.  “I need-” I began, but I couldn’t remember how to finish the sentence as we finally lost the camp to the trunks of old oak trees.  I wondered when these had been planted, how many soldiers they’d sheltered under their boughs.  If I looked up I could see stars through the canopy, and I wanted more than anything to burrow into the ground, to hide here and never come out, to build a telescope from birch and glass and stare at the stars until death took me.  

“Jim,” Spock said, letting go of my side and stepping back to stand across from me.  It was so dark - the light from the waning moon couldn’t reach much here, but my eyes were quick at adjusting to the blackness, and soon I could make out the clean lines of his face.  

“What is it, Spock?” I didn’t recognize my own voice - too soft, too hesitant, like it was coming from far away, across the range in the thick mist of a Georgia morning.  

“I don’t know,” Spock said, and that didn’t sound like him either - one too many contractions, one too many drinks blurring the harsh sound of his consonants.  “I have never - I do not know this feeling.  I - do you-”

“Yeah, Spock,” I said, “I do.”  

Before I could think twice, before I could stop myself with some half-formed excuse about the tenuousness of our position or the shame of our actions, I stepped forward, grasped his neck, and kissed him.  

It was awkward and terrible and then Spock moved his jaw just slightly and it was right. 

He kissed like he was dying, like he was starved and he thought he could consume me.  Strong hands slid up my waist and grasped at the short hairs at the back of my neck; his left hand clutched at my shoulder so hard I thought he might leave bruises.  I gasped in response and he took advantage, licked along the line of my bottom lip before sucking on it, biting it gently and I felt myself go weak at the knees.  

“My god,” I moaned against his lips and I backed him into an oak tree, kissing along his neck, tasting the sweat that ran off his jaw and down to his clavicle underneath the loose army shirt he was wearing.  I traced its path, and I heard his breath hitch above me.  “Want to do so much to you, Spock,” I whispered into his neck.  “Want to wreck you.”  

“Jim,” he said as I bit softly into his collarbone.  It sounded like a prayer.  “We - we-”

“No,” I said, stepping back.  “No, you’re right.  I - I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking-”

“Wait,” Spock said, reaching out and grasping my hand as I tried to turn away.  “I… that is not what I meant.  I…”

“How long?” I asked, staring down at our entwined hands.  

“Since GFT,” he whispered, staring at the ground as if it could absorb him.  

“Yeah.  Me too.”  

A lightning bug flew past us, landing on a low branch.  We watched it in silence, listening to the sound of cicadas in the trees around us.  

“What does this make us, Spock?” I said when I couldn’t take the silence anymore.  

He shifted nervously against the tree.  “I do not know.  I do not know how I am meant to fight alongside you, always aware that some power outside of my control may claim your life.  I do not know-” he stopped.  

I understood.  The thought of Spock bleeding out in front of me made my chest ache.  “We can’t do it,” I said.  “We can’t.  There’s too much at stake here.  We could - people could get hurt.  Our lives - our lives would be over, Spock.  Dishonorable discharge.  We would lose everything.  I can’t do that to you.  I can’t.”  

“Your reasoning is… logical,” he conceded.  “But - I need-” 

“Anything.”  

He pulled me to his chest and kissed me again, slow and gentle like a high school kid making out with his first crush.  It was sweet, drugging, and I lost myself in the feel of his lips, his tongue, the slight flavor of whiskey I could taste behind his teeth.  

“Good night, Jim,” he whispered against my lips as he pulled away.  He left me trembling against that old oak tree, underneath the stars.  

When I got back to the barracks he was already asleep.  I tore a page out of my journal - something to remember me by, I rationed, as I scrawled out the words.  

_You know Orion always comes up sideways.  
_ _Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,  
_ _And rising on his hands, he looks in on me  
_ _Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something  
_ _I should have done by daylight, and indeed,  
_ _After the ground is frozen, I should have done  
_ _Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful  
_ _Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney  
_ _To make fun of my way of doing things,  
_ _Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.  
_ _Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights  
_ _These forces are obliged to pay respect to?_

_Take a look at Eridanus for me, and while you’re busy, remember Orion.  See you in a week, Star-Splitter._

I tucked it into his bag, and went to sleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahh ha ah a //hides//


	34. September 11, 1969

There are wildfires in the Sierras.  There always are, this time of year.  My skin feels fragile, dry and cracked, like kindling, like dry, dry needles in sparse undergrowth.  

I went back to Yosemite Valley.  Stood by the spot where I had buried my father’s pocket watch, months ago, but I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d dug the hole.  I remember my fingernails filling up with dirt, the earth wet and sinking into my jeans, its damp reaching down to grasp at my skin.  Today, the earth was just dust, and the wind swept through the valley, hot and toxic, bringing with it a distant hint of smoke, a promise of a thunderstorm.  I knelt on the ground and felt the granules beneath my fingertips.  I tried to concentrate on their texture, commit it to memory.  I’ve had dirt underneath my fingernails for months now - I’m not sure it’ll ever come out.  Maybe when I go away I’ll take some of California with me.  

I don’t know why I went back.  I didn’t want to find the watch, not exactly.  But it was the only thing I’d ever had of my father’s.  I used to hold it and it almost felt, in those moments, like I could remember him.  I never could.  

But my bones feel like the pine trees in the valley, my skin like sandstone.  Easy to erode, fragile.  Shaped and carved by water, layers upon layers of sediment, created by glaciers, formed by ice.  I left, having done little, having accomplished nothing but looked on the sheer cliff faces of Yosemite Valley for what I suppose might be the last time.  

Bones sent me a letter - it came in the mail yesterday.  He was approved to be sent out with our company, but only because he’d been a surgeon of some renown back in Georgia.  He had sway.  They listened to him - I think he could’ve been an officer, and I wonder why he didn’t go that track.  Why enlist as an ordinary medic when he could make more money being out of harm’s way?  I want to write back, tell him how dumb he is because he’s always saying he’s not a soldier and doesn’t he know that’s what he’s signed up for?  But I don’t write him back.  It’s only a few more days ’til we’re heading out and I don’t think a letter would reach him in time, anyways. 

And isn’t it curious, how nearly two hundred years today Benjamin Franklin said it?  “There never was a good war or bad peace.” That’s what he said, and we haven’t listened.  Even today the Soviets are busy testing some new weapon, some new means of domination to rival ours.  I’ve turned off my television because I can’t fucking listen anymore - I just can’t do it.  

It’s strange being back in San Francisco.  There’s no Pike to talk to on the phone, and I’ve had to talk myself down twice from getting high.  I miss him, I guess.  But there are cigarettes here, and I’ve started to stockpile because if I have to quit smoking I think I might just kill someone.  

I’m trying pretty hard not to think about Spock - about the words I left him in his bag, whether or not he saw them.  He’d left earlier in the morning and hadn’t said good-bye - I’d woken up to find him gone, bed empty and made with his perfect hospital corners, so tightly tucked you could bounce a nickel off them.  I’m trying pretty hard not to think about the way his mouth felt on mine, or how he drew me in for one last kiss even after we’d agreed - _no, no, we can’t do this_.  

But every now and then I catch myself wondering what it would be like - if we could.  I used to think about it before, sure, but not in any sort of solid context - it was always vague, something real distant and unattainable.  And fuck, I’m not even sure what it is about Spock - god knows we probably couldn’t be more different - but it’s like gravity.  He carries himself so small, like he’s not worth anything, like if he’s quiet enough and polite enough maybe he’ll just disappear.  And - well, I don’t know what caused that for him, but I know there was a point for me where I had the choice to be quiet or scream, and I didn’t shut up.  I couldn’t.  Winona always said I came into the world hollering and I’m guessing that’s how I’ll leave it, because I can’t fade away anywhere, even if I wanted to.  And I could be wrong, but I think that Spock was faced with the same choice, and he ran the opposite direction.  Doesn’t mean he’s any less of a rebel - just the rule-following sort, the kind that goes to sit-ins for public demonstrations, not the kind that pickets in front of Congress.  I don’t know what it is that led him to that crossroads.  He might never tell me, and that’s okay, too - everyone has their secrets, even if they harm more often than not.    

I know what led me there, though - voices in the quarry, blood in the water, blooming out from a skull like gladiolus.  In tenth grade reading _“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood / Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather / The multitudinous seas incarnadine, / Making the green one red”_ and racing, racing from the room like the devil was on my tail, because he was.  Sure as anything, he was. 

The dirt underneath my fingernails is tinged red from sandstone, and I pick at it but it won’t come out.  I think about what I’m leaving behind, here - I think about calling Sam but I’m not sure I can stand to hear his voice again.  I’m not sure of anything, anymore, except a paper listing army orders and the cigarette I’ve got between my teeth, the taste of ash on the tip of my tongue.  

I’ve got red underneath my fingernails; I’ve got blood in the lines of my palm and it’s seeped into the skin.  My skin that’s dry like sandstone, shaped by water and brittle like pine.  I’m fragile, and I’m realizing that for the first time in my life, as the cigarette burns my fingertips but I don’t wince, I don’t wince, because fire can’t hurt me.  I’ve got lightning bugs in my chest and they flare, they _glow glow glow_ every time I think of how his eyes looked in the darkness, against an oak tree older than my father, than both our fathers.  

I didn’t unpack my bag, but when I just opened the side pocket to get to my comb, I found a small square of paper folded up neatly in fourths.  I knew the handwriting immediately, and I stared at it for ten minutes before taping it into this journal, because I don’t know if I could bear to lose it.

_We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?_   
_Do we know any better where we are,_   
_And how it stands between the night tonight_   
_And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?_   
_How different from the way it ever stood?_


	35. September 15, 1969

It was raining when I arrived at Fort Lewis, the soft earth of the training facilities turned to mud pits.  Recruits splashed wearily through the muck, packs on their backs as they ran a lap around the barracks for some infringement - I watched their boots disturb the earth with passive interest, ran my fingers under my nails, once, again.  My pack felt heavy, even though I barely brought anything personal.  During the send-off from Benning, the commander had yelled at us - “ain’t like goin’ off to college, boys” - something we remembered all too well, I’d thought, for him to be saying it again.  Besides, anything valuable was something I was gonna be wearing with me when we went out.  

(My two notes from Spock are tucked into the front pocket of my jacket.)

I was so distracted, trying to avoid the worst of the seeming lakes that had formed around the base, that I straight up ran into someone coming out of the mess. 

“Watch where you’re - Jim!” 

“Bones,” I laughed, steadying myself with a hand on his shoulder.  He immediately pulled me in for a lung-crushing hug, and I patted his back awkwardly.  

“Ah, Bones, I can’t - breathe-”  I choked out, and he let go, holding me at arms-length.  

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice was gruff.  “Just missed you, kid.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you sap,” I shook my head as we started to walk together to check in.  

“Hey, you watch that mouth, I nearly had to sell my soul to the damn devil to get here-”

“The devil in this case being the army?” I asked, grinning.  “How did you get here, anyways?”

“Just like I told you in my letter,” Bones said, but he didn’t meet my eye.  

“You’re a bad liar, Bones.”

“You’re worse,” he sighed.  “I just had to sit through a few meetings-”

“A few?”

“Five or six-”

“That many?”

“-probably more like twelve-”

“You say the sweetest things-”

Bones scowled.  “I couldn’t just leave you all alone out in the jungle, it’d be pathetic.  You’ll die from a scratch if I’m not there to make sure you don’t run into barbed wire or some other fool thing-”

“Aw, be fair now-”

“I was being generous,” Bones said, a smile hinting at his lips.  “How’d you get on with the vampire while I was gone?”

The laugh slipped out before I could stop it.  “Why’re you calling him that, huh?  He’s a perfectly normal guy, just ‘cause his eyebrows are a little severe-”

“He’s as pale as I’ve ever seen ‘em, Jim, and those eyebrows are-”

“ _Normal_ , and some people just have pale skin, all right, maybe his family’s from Russia or something-”

“What ze Keptin says is true,” Chekov’s voice came from my left side and I jumped violently.  I hadn’t heard him approach.  

“I swear, Pasha, the next time you call me ‘Captain’ will be the last time you have a tongue.”

Chekov ignored me and simply continued, “Sunblock was inwented in Russia, you know.” 

“Not sure that’s true, Pasha,” Sulu chimed in from the other side of Bones, where he’d appeared just seconds before.  “Thought they started to produce sunblock for soldiers in the Pacific during World War II.” 

“Zat is what they want you to think,” Chekov said, shrugging.  “Zat Russians are all communist Soviets wiz no interest in business.”  

“Are you saying Uncle Sam lies to us, Pash?” Sulu said in mock outrage, startling a laugh out of Bones.  

“Missed you kids, too,” he said when Chekov and Sulu glanced at him, wearing identical grins.  

“Guess you ain’t bad to have around, either,” Sulu said, clapping Bones on the shoulder as we reached the barracks where we’d be meeting the rest of our company.  

I tried real hard to stop myself from sweeping the barracks immediately in order to find Spock; instead, I walked up to the table with the rest of the men and confirmed my check-in, filled out the rest of the necessary paperwork.  When I couldn’t stall any longer, I stepped away from the table and took a cursory look around the room, and my eyes just _found_ him.  

He was sitting on one of the metal chairs near the back of the room, hunched over and shivering slightly with what I expected was cold.  He was soaked through and I wondered how long he’d had to walk before he found the barracks, if he was going to be all right, if he was gonna catch a cold - 

My feet were taking me to him before I’d even made the conscious decision to move.  

“Hey,” I heard myself saying, sitting down next to him.  He glanced up and when his eyes met mine, they almost melted, the harsh lines around his brows softening slightly.  

“Jim,” he said, smiling slightly before drawing his coat more closely around him.  “Are you well?”

I glanced around furtively but Bones and the others were still doing their paperwork and the other men were still filing in.  “I’d be better if I could give you my coat.  But…” 

“The sentiment is appreciated,” Spock said stiffly, and I almost laughed.  His speech patterns, which had been (relatively) loose the last time I’d seen him, seemed to have reverted to their usual rigidity in the single week we’d been apart.  I wondered, not for the first time, how much of that I could attribute to his father.  

“Well, if it isn’t our resident member of the undead,” Bones said, dropping into the seat next to mine.  

I shoved him slightly.  “Come on, man, don’t do that-”

“I am quite pale, Jim,” Spock deadpanned, raising an eyebrow at Bones.  “And, currently, quite cold.”  

I laughed - I couldn’t help it.  I let my thigh press against Spock’s as I stretched my legs out in front of me - we were barely touching, but even so, touching was something friends did.  It wasn’t anything to worry about.  Bones’ gaze slid right over the point of contact, and I felt the muscles in my back unclench in relief.  It was fine.  It was going to be fine.  

The rest of the crew showed up over the next half hour or so, and soon our entire company was amassed in the small shelter - about a hundred men total.  They announced what the trip overseas was gonna look like and told us we’d be headed to Pinkville once we reached the mainland as part of a group of reinforcements.  

I heard someone - maybe Andrews, but I couldn’t hear right, talking about our destination when we boarded the plane.  “Ain’t none of the natives much like us over there, that’s what my brother says.”

“Over where?” The voice sounded absent, and I thought it might have been Crowley.  

“Pinkville.”

“And why’s that?” 

I could tell that, next to me, Spock had frozen to listen in.  Bones was already asleep.  

“Don’t know, do I?  They just don’t.  I’d just say, be careful, that’s what I’d say.”  

“Don’t know nothin’,” came the voice that sounded like Crowley.  “Whatever you say, John.”  

“What do you think?” I whispered, turning to Spock.  “You heard anything?” 

“No,” Spock said cautiously, “but I cannot imagine there are many places in the country that are particularly overjoyed to see Americans.”  

“Yeah.  True.  Want me to talk you through the take-off again?” I asked as the engines started up.  

“That would be agreeable,” Spock said.  

“I went to Yosemite when I was home,” I said, toying with the hem of my sleeve.  “It was real nice out there, you know.  I stayed there all evening and waited for the sun to go down, and you won’t believe the stars you can see out there.  It’s something else.  Do you know what I mean?  You ever seen stars like that?” 

“I am not sure,” Spock said, eyes shut, his posture relaxed. “Perhaps if you described them?” 

“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.  The milky way stretched out so thick and beautiful you can see it, great clumps and clusters of stars, entire systems out there, each with its own sun.  And planets, Spock!  The possibility of life, right there, right where we can see it, and yet right where we can’t reach.  Stars so thick you could swim through them.”

Spock shifted his arm, and his fingers brushed mine on the arm rest.  He smiled.  “I can see it.  Jim… do you ever think the Earth is too small?”  

I paused.  “Before the moon landing, everything was… a mystery.  It was all an unknown, you know?  We didn’t know the texture of the surface of the moon just two months ago, and now?  We know it’s fine, we know that the moon is reminiscent of the American southwest.  It’s funny, because we spend our entire lives on this planet.  _Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of earth we make loam—and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer barrel?_ We live our entire lives here, and most people are happy with that - they till the earth, they harvest it, grow corn year after fucking year.  They’re constantly facing earthward.

“But I think that, every now and then, someone stops and thinks - well, what if I looked up?  And I don’t mean to God, or whatever, but I mean really looking - stopping and thinking, ‘how can we be more than what we are?  How can we keep going, keep pushing? How will humanity stand the test of time?  What’s the next step?’”

The plane lifted from the ground.  

“I think Kennedy was like that.  It wasn’t that the world was too small - he was too _big_.  He had vision, he had promise, he thought we could be something _more_ than what we are.  He looked at the stars, and he saw something besides just God up there in the heavens - I think he saw hope.  It’s like you said - everyone has a first, best destiny, and maybe for some people, they’re just… maybe the world isn’t ready for them just yet.”  

The plane stabilized, and Spock’s fingers brushed against mine once more.  “Thank you, Jim.”  

I wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking me for, but I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me.  “Yeah, Spock.  You’re welcome.”  

Behind me, I heard Stevenson whispering - just a muttered few words, here and there, the clinking of beads.  

I closed my eyes and said my first Hail Mary in over a decade.  It couldn’t hurt to try.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a day late I am trash and I had to do my research paper because I've procrastinated on it, and GISHWHES is going on right now and I am so tired I can scarcely think. I tried to make it (relatively, of course) a bit longer to make up for the fact that I AM TRASH. I swear to you, after GISHWHES is done (so this weekend), this story is gonna come together real quick. I s w e a r. Thank you so sosos soooo much for being so patient with me!!!!


	36. September 16, 1969

We’ve been flown into Saigon.  Soon as we got off the plane the heat hit us like a fucking wave - humid as hell and easily climbing into the eighties.  Too fucking hot, for September, and it’s now that I’m starting to miss San Francisco - just now?  But we’re in our starchy army greens and I watched Scotty keep tugging at his collar as we disembarked and were hustled into vehicles that would take us to a base just outside the center of the city.  

I passed around one of my packs of cigarettes, trying to ignore the hole Bones’ eyes were boring into the side of my head.  I grinned at him, cocky, and offered the pack.  He nearly knocked it out of my hand.  

“You, Spock?” I asked, gesturing vaguely.  Spock shook his head, but his eyes were warm, and I felt myself smiling before I could catch it.  “Suit yourself.”  

“Anyone else need a light?” Uhura asked, offering a box of matches as she took a drag, eyes half-closed.  Scotty’s eyes were glued to her face, and I nudged him with my foot before she could catch him at it.  I didn’t want to think what she’d do to him if she saw him staring.  Appropriately chastised, Scotty at least had the decency to look ashamed. 

“I’ll take one, Nyota, thanks,” Sulu said, reaching over Chekov’s lap to grab the box.  

“So, I heard Johnson and Miller talkin’ about a nice bar, not too far from here,” Scotty said casually.  “Could be some entertainment, if you know what I’m saying.”  

A wicked grin spread across Uhura’s face.  “What, you mean you didn’t… ah… _sate yourself_ last week?” 

“She was out of town!” Scotty protested as Chekov and Sulu howled.  “A man’s got needs!  C’mon, lads, what d’you say?” 

I shrugged.  “It’s not like we’re doing anything until our transport shows up tomorrow - so long’s we don’t have a case of the brown bottle flu in the morning.”  

“You think I don’t have a hangover cure, Jim?” Bones said in mock indignation.  “Some doctor I’d be.” 

“What, do you have some super secret Georgian recipe or something?” Sulu said, leaning forward, clearly interested.  

“Well now I sure as hell ain’t tellin’ you,” Bones drawled.  Chekov grinned and blew out a long stream of smoke.  

“Karu, Pasha, you’ll go with me, right?” Scotty asked. 

“Of course.  I would not miss it,” Chekov said, leaning back and pegging Bones with his young, innocent stare.  “And you, Doc?”

“Might as well,” Bones huffed, leaning back in his seat.  He couldn’t look more resigned. 

“Guess I’ll come too,” I agreed, nudging Spock.  “What about you?” 

“I will go,” Spock said, but he left half a sentence unsaid: _I will go if you go_. 

We all turned towards Uhura.  

“I guess it won’t kill me to see some girls dancing,” she said with a long-suffering sigh but a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.  

“Excellent!” Scotty crowed, which is how we all ended up in a nondescript hole-in-the-wall brothel, strip club, and illegal gambling center (it would be too kind to call it a casino) at 2300 on a Tuesday night in downtown Saigon.  The bar was stocked well with local fare and some booze that I recognized from overseas - lots of French liquors and some American stuff besides.  They had whiskey, and that was good enough for me.  

“Hey, let’s get drinks!” I shouted to Spock, pulling him away from the main group as they went to cluster around one of the dancers.  He’d looked immediately uncomfortable, a direct contrast to Bones, whose eyes just _locked_ onto the local ladies.  I thought I might know the reason for Spock’s seeming disinterest.  

The bar was drifting in a smoky haze and I got us each two fingers of their cheapest.  Tonight wasn’t a night for celebration, or forgetting, but for one last moment of peace before the jungle, before fighting, before death.  

“How was your visit home?” I asked over the music that was pumping through the place - it was American music, but that didn’t surprise me.  It seemed like most of the bar’s clientele was US soldiers.  

“Adequate,” was all he said, turning his body to face outwards, towards the rest of our group.  Scotty was almost drooling, and I figured he’d probably disappear at some point during the night, only to be heard from again in the morning.  

“Not really an answer, Spock,” I said, shaking my head and taking a drink while I watched Uhura - she had done something to her uniform to help its fit, and its neat lines and crisp shoulders were enough to make any man’s head spin.  

“I contacted my brother,” Spock said, so softly I’d thought for a second I imagined him speak.  “In case…” 

“In case you don’t come back,” I finished.  

“Yes.  Did you call Sam?” 

I laughed, but it was bitter and hollow.  “No.  No, I didn’t.”  

“You wish you had.” It wasn’t a question.  I stared at my shoes for a solid minute before I found the strength to open my mouth. 

“Yeah.  I do.”  

Spock nodded and touched my arm - just barely resting his fingertips on the outside of my elbow, but it felt like the nerve endings under my jacket were on fire.  “You can write him.” 

“I know.” 

His fingers contracted, just a little.  “You will come back, Jim.  You will survive this.  You do know that?” 

I looked up at him and I pushed back the urge to cover his hand with my own.  “Yeah, sure, Spock.  I know.  Can we drink now?” 

He nodded, turning back to the bar, but his eyes were still worried.  He paid for the next round.  By the time we looked behind us again, it was 2345 and Scotty had disappeared with the first dancer; Chekov and Sulu had their arms full with some other local girls; Uhura and Bones were seated close to each other on a couch and looked to be deep in conversation.  

“Some team we make, right?” I laughed, and Spock shook his head as if resigned.  

“Indeed… Captain.” 

“No, Spock, not you too!” I howled, punching him in the arm, but he didn’t seem fazed a bit - just smiled enigmatically and the action was so sudden and unexpected that it took my breath away.  

“It suits you, Jim,” he said.  

I scrambled to recover my higher brain functions, to pull my head out of thinking about how much I’d like to kiss those lips, and managed, “Yeah, sure it does.” 

The music picked up in tempo and a few soldiers tugged their girls over to a small dance floor in the corner of the bar.  I saw Uhura perk up and slap excitedly at Bones’ arm, who said something that looked a bit like _you’ve got to be kidding me_.  She shoved him lightly and got up, heading towards me and Spock.  

“Jim, come dance the twist with me,” she said, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me out of my seat.  

“But - I was sitting with Spock-” I complained as she pulled me over to the floor and we started to dance.  

“Somehow, I think he’ll survive,” she said, voice drier than I’d ever heard it.  “He likes you, you know,” she said as we came closer together and I started to let the music take hold of my core.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Don’t play dumb, Jim,” she huffed, rolling her eyes as we shifted into the chicken.  I heard Bones laughing at us from across the room, and I shot him a hand gesture without breaking rhythm.  

“Not playing dumb,” I mumbled as we started up the twist again.  

“He’s staring at you, right now,” she said, inching closer to me on the dance floor so as not to disturb a young Sergeant and his partner.

“He is _not_ ,” I protested, but I knew she was right - I could feel his eyes on the back of my head.  The song changed, and - “I _know_ this one!”

Uhura grinned at me and she reached for my hands.  

“ _The warden threw a party in the county jail.  
_ _The prison band was there and they began to wail.  
_ _The band was jumping’ and the joint began to swing,  
_ _You should’ve heard those knocked out jailbirds sing!”_

Uhura spun in my arms, for once looking carefree, all the weight of training and the war off her shoulders.  She let go of my hands and I started to move my hips the way I’d seen Elvis do it plenty of times - side to side, let the feet hang loose.  Some of the soldiers cheered us on as we whirled around the dance floor, and I leaned in to her ear to sing, 

“ _Number forty-seven said to number three,  
_ _You’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see.  
_ _I sure would be delighted with your company,  
_ _Come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me.”_

Our dance was wild, limbs reaching for steps we wouldn’t have done at home and then Uhura was leaving my arms and headed towards the bar when she stopped in front of Spock.  Everyone on the dance floor was watching her, but Spock’s eyes were still fixed on me.  And then Uhura - well, she started to sing and I couldn’t concentrate much on anything else because her singing voice was something else entirely.  

“ _The sad sack was a sittin’ on a block of stone  
_ _Way over in the corner weepin’ all alone.  
_ _The warden said, “Hey, buddy, don’t you be no square.  
_ _If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair!”_

She twirled back onto the dance floor with Spock and then was pulled away by a Private, into whose arms she went willingly.  Spock was whisked into mine.  

I leaned in closer to sing along to the next verse: 

_“Shifty Henry said to Bugs, “For Heaven’s sake,_  
 _No one’s lookin’, now’s our chance to make a break.”_  
 _Bugsy turned to Shifty and he said, “Nix, nix,  
_ _I wanna stick around a while and get my kicks!”_

Spock started to corral me towards the wall and I think there might’ve been a door behind us but the liquor was finally starting to hit me.  We were in a hallway, through another door, and into a tiny room dominated by a small bed, and I recognized the smell of sex.  We’d stumbled right into the brothel.  The room was empty, though, and Spock pulled me to him as soon as the door had closed and then his lips were on mine.  

It was nothing at all like our first kiss.  

That had been desperate, eager, excited, and this - this was hot lust, this kiss screamed and cried of sex and dirty sheets and dusty hotel duvets that weren’t washed nearly often enough.  I licked into his mouth and it tasted like the booze he’d been drinking, hot and wet and perfect as he sucked on my upper lip.  My hands found their way to his hips and my fingers skimmed along his waistband, feeling the strong edges of his hipbones against my fingernails.  I wanted to lick the hollows beneath them, trace the line of his inner thigh and pepper it with bruises so that he’d remember that he was mine in the morning, that he’d always be mine.  

I moaned into his mouth. 

“Your-” he panted in between kisses, “- _hips-_ ” 

“Mmm,” I acknowledged and went back to chasing the slightly spicy taste that lingered on his tongue, underneath the omnipresent booze and smoke.  “Spock…” His hand swept down my side, reaching behind me to cup my ass and then it was moving back around towards where I was straining hard against my regulation army greens - 

And that’s when it hit me.  

“Spock,” I said, pushing weakly at his chest.  “I - I want to, but-” 

A woman’s laughter sounded from the hallway right outside the room as if to emphasize my point, and he dropped his hands immediately, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the side of my neck.  

“Jim, I am-”

“No, don’t-” I stuttered, because I didn’t want it to be like this again, I couldn’t let us leave it at this again, not after what we were going off to do in the morning.  “I can’t keep my eyes off you, Spock,” I mumbled, leaning in to lick at the hollow under his ear.  He shivered.  “But think of - think of the guys - we don’t know-”

“Of course,” he whispered, trading my kiss for one pressed quick and soft against my lower lip.  His hands came up to bracket my face and I wanted to lose myself in their warmth.  “I wish…” 

“Yeah,” I said, reaching up to cover one of his hands with my own.  “Yeah, me too.”  

He gave me one last heated look and disappeared out the door.  

I couldn’t remember how to move, how to work my arms and legs to produce some semblance of walking.  I was still aching hard and I could feel imprints of his hands on my body - they made my blood spark and hiss, yellow flame against the night.  

I straightened my uniform, took a deep breath, and followed him out.  


	37. September 18, 1969

They never tell you what death smells like. 

Sure, you hear the _pop pop pop_ of the gun.  You think you know what death sounds like.  You think you know what it looks like - bullets hitting a target, paper blistering in the black outline of a man.  You think it would look like that, just with more red.  Just with a body.  

They never tell you what napalm smells like, acrid smoke floating on the breeze as it burns through lines of palm like a junkie takes up lines of coke.  How the smell could make you dizzy, if you weren’t already, because - 

You don’t need them to tell you the smell of blood.  

I’ve known that smell as long as I can remember.  I know its rusty tang on my tongue.  I know the way it sits in the air, a crimson haze that follows in my wake.  

I know how it looks, blooming through the still waters of a quarry in the August sun.  Gladiolus - and that’s right, isn’t it?  A sword, cutting across pale gray rock, a sword, cutting across a stone shield.  I remember how it felt on my fingers.

We had a paratrooper team with us when we left Saigon.  The op was simple, easy, something the army’s done a hundred times before - they would head down before us, clear the area of any stray Viet Cong, and we would follow as support.  There were some new camps between Saigon and Pinkville that they needed help clearing out, and our company was going to assist in the process.  No easing-in here.  Just straight into the fray.  

They told us it would be easy - the camps weren’t well-staffed, since they were further away from the main base of Viet Cong operations in the north, and the worst they could shoot at us were M16s - no heavy artillery.  We’d bivouac our way up north until we reached the rest of the Americal outside Pinkville - we would be teaming up with a few other units from Saigon in taking out the camps.  

In, out.  Easy.  

Of course, Gary Mitchell was in the paratrooper unit - I supposed it only made sense that we’d meet at some point, but everything here is still so fresh, so raw, and Gary had always been… grating.  To say the least.  

“Jim,” was all the greeting he gave me, and I was hopelessly grateful.  My squad was strapping into the aircraft, Spock and Bones on either side of me.  Gary paused in front of me, rather than going to find his own seat.  

“Gary,” I acknowledged, and I saw Spock sit up a little straighter in his seat.  I wondered what was wrong - they’d been battle buddies, did that mean - 

“Surprised to see you in the army,” Gary said, running his hand through his shorn-short hair.  “Thought you gave up on it years ago - what was it?  Middle school.  About the time that Frank-”

“Yeah,” I said, interrupting him.  “Yeah, you know me.  Gotta show up the old man, I thought.”  I couldn’t punch him, I rationed.  It would be unprofessional.  Besides, I was already buckled in and he was too far away for my arm to reach.  

Gary smiled, but it wasn’t kind.  He’d noticed the interruption.  “Sure thing, Jimbo.  Ready to kill some gooks?” 

I clenched my fists tight enough that my knuckles turned white.  “As much as I’ll ever be.” 

“That’s my boy,” Gary said, clapping me on the shoulder and moving a ways down the plane to find a spot to sit.  Bones watched him go, the look in his eyes suspiciously close to hatred.  

“I could poison him for you, if you want,” he offered.

I laughed, and Spock’s posture eased up at the sound.

“Thanks, but he’d probably survive it anyways.  I always said he would outlast a nuclear explosion - he has an incredible sense of self-preservation.” 

“I can’t imagine you had much in common, then,” Bones said darkly.  “Don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Easy there, mom,” I huffed, grinning.  Bones turned his glower on me and I was just about to tease him for it when I heard Gary’s voice again.

“Hey, honey, shocked to see you here,” he said as Uhura sat down in the seat next to Chekov’s.

“And why is that?” 

Gary burst out laughing.  “What - you have to sleep your way through training?  Bet the Major would give you a passing grade for your physical in exchange for a good fuck-”

“You watch your mouth,” Scotty said.  Uhura was just smiling as she buckled herself in, checked the straps.  

“Or what, England?  You her pimp?” 

And I didn’t - I didn’t remember Gary like that.  I wondered what had happened to him, to turn him so cold, so angry.  I decided I didn’t much want to know.  

“No,” Uhura said.  “Or I’ll kill you myself with my bare hands.  And if you think anyone would find out, you’re forgetting that nobody would want to admit a girl can kill just as well as a man.  And he’s Scottish,” she added as an afterthought.  “Doesn’t take too kindly to people calling him English, so I’d watch yourself.”  

Gary’s eyes widened, just a bit, and I rolled my eyes.  “Should know better than to mess with her,” I muttered.  

“He does not have much sense,” Spock said as the plane began to cruise down the runway.  

“Never did,” I said, leaning back in my seat.  “How’re you guys feeling?” 

Bones grunted, and Spock gave me a pained look.  I sighed.

“Can’t believe out of all the people in this plane I get stuck between the one person who hates taking off and another who thinks we’re all gonna die as soon as step on the goddamn plane.” 

“One bird, Jim, in the propeller, that’s all it takes-”

“Doctor, you are being irrational,” Spock said, closing his eyes as we began to ascend.  The plane would be flying at a relatively low altitude, since we would be doing a parachute drop and it was getting dark.  “The chances of that happening-”

“Still exist, and that’s all that matters to me,” Bones interrupted.  “Now shut up and let me not think about all the different fool ways you idiots are going to get injured during these damn firefights.”  

When the paratroopers went out the back, Gary gave me a mock salute and a leer.  I wanted to shoot him myself.  And that - 

That was when the air around us caught fire.  

There was a discordant chorus of, “are we being shot at?” and “are we gonna make it to the runway?” because they had to bring the plane down on a base that had recently been captured by our forces and might be under pressure by the Viet Cong.  

“Gentlemen, we’re going to bring the plane down, it looks like there’s heavy fighting on the ground-”

I heard the Captain’s voice but I could’t think; my brain was frozen and I felt my stomach lurch as we descended, bullets peppering the side of the plane and Bones was next to me rattling off Our Fathers like he was sitting in church. 

The plane landed with jarring uncertainty and then we were falling into formation, running down the loading ramp and night was falling around us but I raised my gun to my shoulder and 

“ _Aaaargh!_ ” Was that Uhura?  In retrospect, it must’ve been - she charged forward, placing shots with pinpoint precision and dodging behind a helicopter that lay about fifty feet away on the landing strip.  They had breached the barbed wire fences, it looked like, and the snipers on top of our watchtowers had been taken out.  

“Take cover!” I yelled, grabbing Spock’s wrist - Bones had stayed with the other medics inside the plane.  He was safe  and out of danger and he could take care of himself.  I dragged us both behind Uhura’s chopper, and the rest of our squad followed.  

“Where’s the Sergeant?” I yelled over the pepper of gunfire.  

“He’s down!” Sulu said, dabbing carefully at a cut on his bicep.  

“Are you hurt?” I asked, returning gunfire and stepping back behind our cover. 

“No, just grazed.”

“What should we do?” Uhura asked, cautioning a shot through the open doors of the helicopter.  

I risked looking inside the vehicle - there were a few extra M16s and a couple sniper rifles by the door.  I grabbed them and distributed them - a sniper to both Uhura and myself, since we had the best marksmanship, and rifles to the rest.  They slung them on their backs.  

“Find a point from where you can shoot, and then take the damn shots - there can’t be that many of them left!” 

They did as I asked, and the skirmish was over in about fifteen minutes, the rest of the gooks fled or bleeding out on the landing strip.  Only one had made it to our refuge and I had shot him between the eyes, watched him crumple at my feet,  brains blown out behind him in a gory imitation of a rainbow.  His eyes were glassy in the dim light of the airfield, blood pooling around his skull like lake water, black in the night.  Riley bent down to the body and I almost said something, but he pulled cigarettes from the man’s back pocket and tossed them to me.  There was blood on the outside of the package.  Spock looked at me as I tucked them in my belt, raised one eyebrow.  I shrugged, and we headed back towards the rest of command, who had finally arrived.  

There was a temporary camp not too far away where we reconvened.  They questioned us about the ambush.  I still hadn’t seen Bones, but the other medics had been rushing back and forth between tents, trying to get to all the injured - Sulu had tied a scrap of fabric around his arm to staunch the bleeding, and he said he was fine.  I believed him.  Spock drew me away after the briefing, behind a tent.  His hands hovered over my arms, like he wanted to touch me but he knew he couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and I couldn’t see his expression too well in the darkness, but he sounded worried.  

“Yeah.  I’ll be okay.” 

(Bullet wound in a forehead, blood dripping down, dark skin onto dark ground and a black pool of blood)

“Jim,” he said softly, and now he did touch me, just a hand on my shoulder but it felt like a lifeline.  It drew me back, drew me in through the riptide until I could breathe again.  

“I killed him,” I said, and the words sounded hollow.  Sounded dead.  

“I know.  You did what was necessary.”

“I could have - I don’t know, we could have captured him-”

“Perhaps,” Spock said, squeezing my shoulder gently.  “Jim… in war, as in life, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.  You killed him because you had to protect your team.” 

I blinked.  “Do you have any news on the Sergeant?  Did you - I wasn’t listening, really-”

“Negative, but the Doctor may know more.  He will be in the medical tent.  Should we-?” 

“Yeah,” I said.  “Yeah, let’s.” 

The Sergeant was dead.  Spock said something about promoting from within, about my leadership in the skirmish, but I didn’t want to listen.  I didn’t want to think about anything.  Bones said he’d be staying up and we left him, went back out into the night, into the sudden still after a storm.  

They assigned us temporary tents for the night until we could all head out again in the morning - they were two person, and Spock followed me into one, laid out his bedroll beside mine.  

I was shaking, shaking so hard I thought I might fall apart bit by bit until I was nothing but pieces of organs and skin and bone on the ground.  Spock waited until I had settled, then inched towards me, laid a hand tentatively on mine.  I moved my body closer to his, just a bit, until I could feel the heat from his skin.  It steadied me.  

“I killed him,” I said.  “I killed him Spock, and I felt nothing as I pulled the trigger.”  

He pulled me against his side, so that my nose was buried in the crook of his neck.  I breathed deeply, and he smelled like sweat, musk, spice.  Comforting.  

“War does not allow for hesitation, Jim, nor does it often call for peaceful options.  You cannot always win.”  

“I don’t-” I paused, shuddering.  “I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.  I should have spared him.  I should have.”  

A bullet hole between his eyes, the blood on the cigarette pack smudged by fingerprints.  It’s underneath my fingernails, has been since I was thirteen, since Frank and the quarry and the blood on the rocks and the water, after I crashed his car and he hunted me down and found me hiding and terrified and bruised.  His fists like boulders, breaking nose and jaw and clavicle, and at last my hands 

_my hands_

pushing, lashing out and that’s the sound of skull on rock and that’s the sound of a bullet in a skull and that’s the sound they make as their breathing runs ragged and their life slips away from them in streams of gladiolus, in great pools of black, and these are my eyes as I watch them die, as I watch them die in front of me, as I listen to their heart beat one last time, as I listen to the way the air leaves their lungs one last time, as I watch their eyes glaze over in the dim light of a quarry, of an airfield.  

Spock drew me closer, wrapped an arm around my side, and whispered, “I am here, Jim.  Sleep now.” 

This is the way I close my eyes, close them and know I will see the red under my fingernails in the morning, if I sleep through the night without waking.  This is the way I close my eyes, close them and know I have not slept without waking for ten years.  This is the way I consummate my wish - not by the knife, but by continuing to live.  For what punishment is it to die?  I think it’s much worse to live, and to remember.  


	38. September 19, 1969

I woke up ensconced in Spock’s arms, sweating my fucking ass off, but I didn’t want to move.  His nose was nuzzled up against my neck, and I slipped out of the tent into the dawn, pretty sure he woke up behind me.  

“Jim!” Bones’ voice.  

“Hey,” I said, stretching my arms behind my back, feeling my neck crack and finally looking up to meet his gaze.  He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept at all, with massive shadows under his eyes and a glazed look around the irises.  “Christ, Bones, did you get any rest?  You look like hell.”

“Could say the same about you, kid.  Spock with you?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“Major wants to see you in the command tent first thing.  They sent me over to find you.”  

“Aw, shit,” I said as Spock stepped out of the tent behind me, looking (unsurprisingly) much too put-together for how early it was.  I was pretty sure my hair was sticking out at least four different ways.  “Yeah, we’ll head over.”  

“Great,” Bones said, “I’m going to go try and catch some rest before we head out later.”  

“Probably for the best, Bones,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Can’t have you half-asleep out there on us.  One of us might combust while you’re dozing and then where would you be?” 

“I shudder to think,” he replied, grimacing, then left.  

“We got a meeting with command,” I told Spock, heading back in the tent to retrieve the fatigues I’d left crumpled by the door.  “Shit, they’ve still got blood on them-”

“I do not believe the Major will be concerned with blood,” Spock said, tugging his own jacket over his head and strapping on his belt.  

“You’ve got a point,” I reasoned, lacing my boots.  “Do I look all right?” I asked, holding my hands out in front of me like a greeting.  

And maybe I was imagining it, but I thought Spock’s eyes darkened a bit in the weak light filtering through the canvas of our tent.  “Quite presentable,” was all he said.  

“Great, let’s do this.” 

Command talked at us for a solid five minutes about the promotion process for enlisted soldiers and I just about wanted to run out of the tent because I thought I knew where this was going.  And I cursed Sergeant Morrow for dying on us because if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have been in that damn tent at a half hour past dawn, waiting for the words to fall out of the Major’s mouth like a fucking judge’s sentence.  

“Generally, of course, an enlisted soldier must fulfill time requirements in order to take a position higher than E-3,” the Major repeated for what was probably the sixth time.  “Due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Sergeant Morrow’s death and your exceptional record in Basic and AIT, and also due to the unique chemistry you possess with your squad, Private Kirk - we are promoting you to the rank of Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, but it didn’t make sense - they’d skipped right over Corporal, and I definitely hadn’t even achieved the requirements for _that_ rank yet - 

“Private Spock,” the Major said, turning away from me.  “There had not previously been a Corporal assigned to your squad.  It says in your file that you have often worked as second-in-command to Sergeant Kirk during training exercises.”  

He paused, and Spock said, “Yes, sir.”  

“Good.  I’m promoting you to Corporal.  You’ll be working as Sergeant Kirk’s second.  The rest of your squad will each be receiving promotions as well in response to the marksmanship and resolve exhibited during last night’s ambush.  These promotions will be proportional to their current ranks.  Do you gentlemen have any questions?”

“No, sir,” we said together.  “Thank you, sir.”  

“Dismissed.”  

I left the tent in a daze.  “That’s fucking unreal.”  

“Jim?” 

“Well, it is - we, what? Tell people to take cover behind a fucking chopper, organize some semblance of a front and we’re getting promoted because a guy died?  It just doesn’t feel right.  It’s not the right way to get a promotion.”  

Spock dipped his head in acknowledgement.  “Perhaps.  Are you hungry?” 

“Yeah, actually, I’m starving.”  

We ventured to find the mess for a solid fifteen minutes, and I wasn’t sure the lukewarm oatmeal they were serving was necessarily worth the hike.  

“This is sludge,” I said, watching it drop off my spoon in thick globs.  “What the hell is this?  It’s not real food.”

“Not like it’s going to get much better, where we’re headed,” Uhura said, shrugging and dropping into the seat next to mine.  “Good morning, you two.  You met with the Major yet?” 

I eyed her suspiciously.  “How did you know?” 

“Wasn’t much of a stretch,” she said, starting to shovel down her oatmeal with distaste.  “We all knew Morrow had died.”  I opened my mouth to retaliate, to explain exactly why a more experienced soldier should have received the position (like a well-qualified Corporal), but she just kept talking.  “What about you, Spock?” 

“Corporal,” Spock said, but the word sounded bitter, too.  

“Nice,” Sulu said, Chekov trailing after him to our table like an overtired puppy.  He didn’t look to be able to open his eyes all the way.  

“Drink some coffee, Chekov,” I said, nudging my cup towards him.  “It tastes like dirt, but it’ll help.” 

He accepted it without a word and cradled it between his palms like it could offer him some sort of salvation.  

“Sorry about Gary, Jim,” Uhura said, scraping the side of her bowl.  

“What about him?” I asked absently.  “And shit, he was such an asshole to you yesterday, I should’ve-”

“Ah, Jim…” Uhura said tentatively.  “He’s dead.  Did Bones…?”

“No, he didn’t tell me,” I whispered, and suddenly my oatmeal looked even less appetizing than before.  Gary Mitchell.  Dead.  

It wasn’t like I’d spoken to him in years.  It wasn’t like we were best friends anymore.  We weren’t.  Far from it.  But.  He was my first.  He was my first for a lot of things, and I think a part of me still wanted to believe that someday we could’ve resolved things, that someday it could’ve been like it was before everything happened.  Losing friends isn’t easy.  And he had been more than a friend - even if it was only for one night.  

I wanted to ask how he died.  I wanted to know exactly how his life had been taken from him - was it fast?  Painless?  Or was it drawn out, extended, agonizing - did he bleed out on the battlefield?  Did he break his leg, was he unable to run, did his throat get slit?  

I resolved to ask Bones later.  Breakfast wasn’t the time.  Still too early, a red dawn rising in the east as I thought about what lay out over that ocean.  Strange, looking east out onto the Pacific.  Strange, knowing how much space separates you from that foreign country that bears the same name as the country of my birth - _America_.  It seems so strange now, even after just a few short days here.  I feel like it’s already slipping away from me - what did the earth feel like, in Yosemite?  Did the Georgia air feel like this, at morning wake-ups?  Did the sunrise look the same?  And what about the moon - were the craters different here?  

I don’t know, yet.  I know that we came here three days ago.  I know that I have already killed a man, shot him dead between the eyes and took his cigarettes.  

I smoked one as we started packing our things, our few belongings to head north into the bush, to head north to Pinkville.  I smoked a dead man’s cigarette, and for a minute I thought there was blood on the paper.  There wasn’t, it was just the marks my fingers made where I gripped it.  My fingers were dirty still, from the night before.  

We strapped our bedrolls to our backs, our canteens to our belts and I watched as the communicators and medics gathered in groups to figure out how to split.  Bones had assigned himself to our platoon, and he gathered with my squad - _my squad_ \- as the others worked to find each other.  

And in a way, I guess I understand what the Major said.  My ragtag team of seven - one short of a normal squad and I expected that was because of Uhura but I didn’t want to say anything.  I didn’t say anything, because I knew she was thinking it, too.  Who wanted to work with a girl?  But we knew - Uhura was worth two men.  Maybe even three, on a good day, and hey - what’s the fun, if there isn’t a little risk?  Smallest squad in the platoon and some would call that a disadvantage - I say let them come.  Let’s see how it plays out.  

“At least our patches aren’t ugly,” Sulu said, craning his head to see the Americal division shoulder sleeve insignia on the side of his fatigues.  It was four white stars on a blue field, and I almost smiled.  

“Because _that_ is our biggest concern right now, laddie,” Scotty grumbled, checking his belt for munitions again.  

Sulu shrugged.  “Aesthetics are important, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Monty.” 

“I swear to god, if you-”

“All right, all right,” I said, hushing them up as we started to march, following the trucks that ambled along the airfield like they were looking for a job to do.  “Let’s try to focus here, seeing as it was only last night there was a fucking ambush here, okay? We make it to the base outside Pinkville and you can bicker all you want.” 

“You can be damn sure of that,” Scotty said, hefting his gun as we headed forward with the rest of the company.  

“Hey, you know, we should make a name for our team.  This,” Sulu said, gesturing towards the seven of us.  “Our squad.”  

There were a few nods and I said, “Maybe we all think on it, say our recommendations when we make camp for the night, take a vote tomorrow.” 

“Zat is a good plan,” Chekov said, nodding.  

“But it’s gotta be something we can all pronounce, all right, Pasha?” Sulu clarified, and Chekov grimaced in disappointment, causing everyone to burst out laughing (except Spock, of course, who still just smiled).

As we went, Spock and I naturally fell back behind in order to monitor everyone, to double-check and make sure we were all here, that we’d all survived it - Basic, AIT, the trip, the ambush, all of it.  That we were here, and we were headed into something we could only guess at.  The jungle was quick to swallow us, faster to stifle the sounds coming from the company as we tread carefully through the undergrowth.  It was so thick, like wading through water, like stones breaking in a river.  I pressed my shoulder to Spock’s - just briefly - eyes ahead and scanning the palms.  His answering nod felt like an understanding.  Like a promise.  

_I’m by your side, Jim_ , it said.  _Like I always have been, and always will be_.  

The forest lost some of its shadows, and I felt something in my chest - something so, so close to hope.  I shied away from it instinctively, took a step to the side when I had to step over a root, put distance between myself and the bubble of _something_ in my chest that felt like Spock, that felt like - 

This is what I know: 

Sergeant Jake Morrow, deceased. Bullet to his left carotid artery.  
Private Gary Mitchell, deceased. Torn parachute, broken spine in the fall.  
Private Christopher Olson, deceased. Three holes in his chest.  
Staff Sergeant Andrew Morris, deceased. Head trauma.  
Private Luke Stevenson, deceased. Guess even God couldn't save him from a bullet in the skull.  


	39. September 22, 1969

“What’s it like?” I asked.  

We were huddled around the campfire, listening to the jungle around us, watching the rise and fall of our squad’s chest.  It was late - so late, but we couldn’t see the stars for the canopy above us, could only see a sliver of the moon through the mess of leaves.  

“To what are you referring?” Spock whispered, rubbing his hands together where the flames could warm them.  

I checked the bedrolls once more and saw sleeping men for as far as the night allowed; I reached out and took his hands in between mine.  He sighed in relief.  

“Your home.  New York.  Tell me about it.”  

“My grandparents immigrated from Eastern Europe,” he said, closing his eyes as I began to rub my hands against his, trying to get some warmth into his frigid fingers.  “They - ah - did not possess much wealth, and my grandfather found a job working in a coal plant in Pennsylvania.  My father is not fond of the city - of industry - I suppose his distaste stems from the surroundings of his youth.”  

“That makes sense,” I said.  

“He left home at sixteen to pursue a career with the military.  He saw it as his only chance to become something more than an immigrant’s son.  Eastern Europeans were not looked upon kindly.” 

I nodded - I knew this, of course I did.  Anyone who’d studied history would know that.  “So the war happened?” I prompted, when Spock lapsed into thoughtful silence.  

“Yes,” he agreed.  “The war came, and my father went overseas as an officer.  He met my mother there, in Italy.  She was a nurse.”  

“Wow.”  

“After the war, they returned to the States, and he took his pension and built a house upstate.  It was far removed from any real form of civilization - very isolated, but I believe that is what he preferred.  It was… not easy, returning from war.  The sounds of the city…”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.”  

“He did not paint the house - rather, he stained it, painted the trimming a dark green.  It lies beside a lake,” Spock said, and it was clear he was immersed in his memories, a glazed look in his eyes.  “And the water - he designed the house so that it draws water from an underground spring.  It is… sweet.  There was a sun porch.  My mother used to sit there and watch the lightning storms pass by.  I never understood her fascination with them - my father would lock himself in his room and not emerge until the thunder had passed.  But my mother… she thought they were beautiful.

“Once, I joined her in watching, and a bolt of lightning struck not fifteen feet away from us, in the small lawn between the side of the house and the start of the foxglove.  The light was beyond description - one moment, the world was darkness, only the hard sound of the rain on the lake to give any real sense of distance, the next… the entire area was illuminated, and then it was gone.  

“I waited until the next day and walked out to look at where the lightning had struck.  There was singed grass on the ground and I remember thinking - how fascinating, that something so frightening, so terrible, can be such a source of beauty.  I thought then that I wanted to study science, but… things change.”  

“What changed?” I asked, gently squeezing his hands between mine.  

“I was nineteen, and had just returned from my first year at university.  It was May, and my mother had left the house to go to the store.  The road home was narrow, heavily wooded, and she - there was a lightning storm.  A bolt hit a tree, and the tree came down on her car.  It was a freak accident.  She did not survive.” 

The fire spat, a spark reaching up towards the palms above us, towards the night sky.  “After her death, I lost interest in destruction.  The science of chemistry, physics - once a pleasure to me - had become something easily weaponized.  I never wanted…” 

“You never wanted to become a weapon yourself,” I finished, but my chest was hollow.  Of course, I thought.  _Of course._

“I did not believe myself capable of such a transformation,” Spock said.  “I was wrong.”  

I couldn’t answer that.  What would I say?  _I don’t understand, Spock.  I think I’ve been one all my life.  I think this is the first place since the quarry that I’ve really felt alive._

“What do you think of the team name?” I asked instead.  “You didn’t really voice an opinion the other day, when we decided.”  

“‘Team Phantom’ was interesting,” Spock said, a slight quirk to his lips.  

“And stupid, _god_ , I can’t believe Sulu actually said that,” I laughed.  “What was Pasha’s again - oh, right, ‘The Spectacular Seven’ - and yeah, that one’s definitely worse.”  

“The Doctor’s-”

“‘The Martyr Squad’? Yeah, not happening-”

“I rather thought ‘The Orange’ was quite-”

“Boring, I think is what you’re looking for, but what about Uhura’s ‘Team Kick-Ass’, I really thought-”

“It was vulgar and would not be suitable for inter-platoon communication?  I liked yours,” Spock said abruptly, gripping my fingers a little tighter and it occurred to me that we hand’t yet let go.  

“Mine was… unoriginal.”  

“Shakespeare is never original, Jim, yet you have used it with continuing frequency over the course of our acquaintance.  It is my belief that you appreciate literature far more than you choose to admit.”  

“So I’m a bookworm, what can I say?” I asked, shrugging.  “Like you don’t get all the references?”

Spock frowned.  “I understand them all.” 

“Exactly,” I said, grinning.  

“It is… morbid,” he added, the lines around his mouth deepening.  “There is other source material, Jim.” 

“I know,” I said, “but with what we’re here to do, it seemed… appropriate.  If nothing else.”  

“With that, I cannot argue.”  

“Do you think Hamlet really wanted to fuck his mom, or-”

“Jim,” Spock admonished, and it looked like he was trying really hard not to crack a smile.  

“It’s not like it isn’t a valid question.”  

“I have always focused more on the theme of the body politic throughout the play.  I find it quite relatable to the current state of affairs in the United States.”  

I huffed a laugh.  “What, do you think we’re rotting from the inside out?” 

“Fair is foul, and foul is fair,” he said with a slight motion of his head that may have been indifference.  

“And sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,” I retaliated.  “But come, Spock, let’s away!  We could banter all night.” 

He smiled, then, and checked the moon.  “We still have an hour.”  

“Words, words, words,” I mumbled, settling in at his side but releasing his hands.  “I gotta say, though, Nixon creeps me out.  Maybe you’re on to something there.”  

Spock shook his head.  “Perhaps, and perhaps someone should look deeper into the reasons we are fighting this war.  Although, as it is, _enterprises of great pith and moment / with this regard their currents turn awry, / and lose the name of action_.”  

 _Team Enterprise_ , I thought, gripping my rifle a little bit tighter.  Not too bad a name at all.  


	40. September 27, 1969

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used google translate for all of the Vietnamese so it's probably hella inaccurate, but it's all really straightforward dialogue that is more or less translated for you in the text. yes i am trash i know

They tell us we’re gonna reach base camp soon.  Fuck, I can only hope so - can’t tell one acre of the jungle from the other, not really, and the C-rations are wearing our stomachs thin.  

We’ve cleared two camps since we set out - one, without losing any of our men; the other was harder, since they had some weaponry that looked Soviet in origin that was more advanced than what we’d anticipated.  Our squad made it through with only a sprained wrist and a graze (this time, Uhura’s left calf), but others weren’t as lucky.  

It didn’t take long for their snipers to spot us, which we probably should’ve predicted, even though it was past midnight and the jungle was dark as pitch.  I caught Sgt. Peterson’s men lighting up and probably would’ve killed them myself if the shooting hadn’t started.  

Private Alcamo was shot clean through the head, right in front of me.  Huge fucking gaping hole - I could see it, even in the night, I could see where it entered and exited his body, feel blood - _his blood_ \- spattering my cheeks.  I didn’t have time to rub at it, get it off, because Team Enterprise took up position and started to fire.  

It’ll probably only be a matter of time before we achieve some sort of reputation for our marksmanship.  I think Uhura took down about six men by herself in the first thirty seconds alone, and I matched her shot for shot.  I didn’t let myself think about the way their bodies crumpled underneath them - 

_just like the kid on the airfield_

_just like the man in the quarry_

\- the way their weapons fell, loose, from their hands, how I could see everything happening, even in the wash of camp lights.  

When we had cleared the perimeter and it came time to search the base for living bodies, for women and children ( _they’re all weapons, it’s total war, you don’t know who’s dangerous and who’s not_ ), the gun was warm in my hands and I gripped it tight so that they couldn’t see me shake. Spock was on my right and his shoulder brushed mine as we walked, burst down doors - 

“Hands on your head!  Hands on your fucking head - let me _fucking see them_!”

Spock and I ducked out of the low building we’d been clearing at the yelling and ran across the muddy earth of the compound to what looked like a munitions bunker.  Two Privates I didn’t know were in the process of dragging four women out of the structure - their hands were on their heads and I thought they were crying but it was hard to tell amidst the screaming.  

“Không! Xin vui lòng!” one of the women yelled, grasping at the leg of one Private Dorsey.  

“Shut the _fuck_ up, you fucking cunt!” he shouted, bringing the butt of his rifle down on her shoulder.  There was a loud crack, and then she collapsed, face white and contorted in pain.  The others fell silent.  

I suddenly remembered how to move, and stepped forward.  “Gentlemen,” I said, and they stood to attention.  “What’s going on here?  Who’s your CO?” 

“They might have information, sir,” the other Private - Mathis - said.  

“And you expect to get it out of them by pointing a gun at their heads - by fucking beating them?” 

“Sergeant Kirk,” came a voice from behind me and I turned to find Sgt. Blackwell.

“Blackwell,” I said, and I thought I saw contempt in his eyes.  “These your men?” 

He nodded once and strode towards Mathis and Dorsey, slicking his hair back from his forehead.  There was blood on his right hand.  “Well?”

“Benson heard this bitch,” Dorsey kneed one of the women, “say somethin’ about an underground base before we charged the building.  We’re trying to figure out where it is, sir.  Could be the dinks are hidin’ out there.”

“Benson?” Blackwell asked, turning to the Private, who was hovering uncertainly next to the bunker.  

“Yes, sir.  That’s what I heard, sir.” 

“All right, then,” Blackwell said.  “You translate?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Blackwell pulled his pistol, cocked it, and shoved it against the forehead of one of the women, who shrieked and made an aborted attempt to flee.  Three other men stepped forward to grab her companions, but Blackwell moved fastest.  His boot landed on her ankle, and I heard it snap under his weight.  The screams turned to a choked gargle and the woman stopped struggling.  Blackwell pressed his gun to her temple.  

“Ask the other one where the fucking gooks are,” he said, “or I blow her fucking head off.”  

Benson turned to face the woman whose collarbone had been broken, eyes wide.  “Họ ở đâu?”

“Tôi không biết!” she sobbed, head bent to the ground as if in prayer.  “Tôi không biết!” 

“She does not know,” Spock whispered in my ear.  

“Chúng tôi là nô lệ của họ!” she pleaded - or at least, it sounded like a plea.

“She says they were slaves,” Spock translated.  “Sex trade, I would assume.”

“Sir,” Benson said, “she says that she doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”  

Blackwell visibly reined in his frustration.  “Tell her she has five seconds to talk, or I’m killing this one.”  

“Bạn có năm giây để trả lời câu hỏi. Họ ở đâu?” 

“Không! Xin vui lòng!  Tôi không biết!” she screamed.  “Tôi không biết!”

“Five,” Blackwell began, sounding bored.  “Four.  Three.” 

He pulled the trigger.  

When I was a kid, I used to love reading Greek mythology.  Any mythology, really - I liked learning about the myths, the creatures, everything.  I remember reading about the banshee and her wail, how it could chill the hearts of men.  I don’t know what a banshee is meant to sound like, but I think it would sound like that.  I think it would sound like the screams of women who know they’re going to die at the hands of American soldiers because they can’t produce information that’s fucking good enough. 

“Blackwell,” I protested, trying not to look at the brain matter on the ground, at the blood on Blackwell’s fatigues, at the figure of the woman at his feet.  “They don’t know anything - don’t.  Don’t kill them.”  

“Going soft on me, Kirk?” he sneered, pulling another woman by the hair so that she was kneeling in front of him.  He ran his hand through the matted strands of her hair - petting her?  I wanted to throw up.  He cocked the gun again, rested it on her cheek.  “Or did you just want one of them for yourself?” 

“Fucking - Blackwell, put her the fuck down.  They don’t know anything.”  

“Hey, bitch!” he shouted, ignoring me and grabbing the woman by her chin, forcing her head up to look at him.  “What ‘bout you? Where’s your fucking slope husband hiding?” 

She opened her mouth, but it didn’t look like she could speak.  

He shot her, too.  

“Kill them both,” he said to Dorsey and Mathis, and left.  I stood, horrified, as the two privates moved into position behind the remaining two women, pressed their rifles to their heads, and pulled the triggers.  

“Jim, we must find the others,” Spock said, but I heard his voice shake, knew he was thinking the same thing as me - why the hell did they have to die?  Why the fuck did they die?  They had  no weapons, no knowledge, nothing they could hurt us with, nothing - 

_Or did you just want one of them for yourself?_

I forced back the vomit that accompanied the thought, the idea of taking a woman like that, of fucking her just because I could.  Is that war?  Pike never told me about this part of it.  Pike never told me about the things you could see men do to those who were the most defenseless.  

“Okay,” I said, tearing my eyes away from where Blackwell’s men were tearing through the bunker.  “Okay.”  

I think about the men I killed, their bodies giving way underneath them because of bullets I placed.  I think about how the gun felt in my palm - almost like I was holding onto someone, like I was grasping someone else’s hand.  I watch Spock sleeping in his bedroll and think about the way he bought a Vietnamese phrase book and how stupid grateful I am that he did, because I need to be able to stop it next time.  And it’s not - it’s not like I have something to prove.  Yeah, I’m a boot, I’m fresh, I’m green but I’m a fucking Sergeant and those women didn’t need to die.  

I look at my palms and I see the blood of all the men I’ve killed.  I know it’s too much and it’ll never be enough, that I won’t ever kill enough men to protect the ones I care about the most.  I know it’ll never wash clean, I know that my countryman’s blood is now mixed with the blood of my victims, and it soaks into my skin, tainting my veins.  

I touch my fingertips to his and even that little bit of contact sends lightning through my nervous system.  What is it, that when he’s around - I feel whole again?  Or maybe not whole, but - _more_ , somehow.  Like there’s something there that wasn’t there before.  And I feel _good_ again - like there’s something in me that maybe no amount of blood can touch.  

When he’s not there, that’s gone.  And I wish to hell I knew how to get it back by myself, because if there’s one thing that I’m sure of, it’s that people will let you down.  And when they do, if you’re so wrapped up in the high only someone else (or some _thing_ else) can give you - well, you might not know yourself.  And that?  That’s the worst there is.  


	41. October 1, 1969

Memory is a strange thing.  

We haven’t been in country for more than a couple weeks, and it’s only been a month since Spock and I sat outside on fire duty during AIT and watched the fireflies.  Watched the stars.  

Memory is a strange thing, because even now it is becoming easier to forget.  

I look back at old entries and I think - is that really how they happened?  My mind has added things, here and there - or has it forgotten? Riley and Edwards were rehashing bivouac scenarios the other night as our platoon clustered underneath slung tarps to get out of the constant rain.  

“It rained for, like, a week straight back in Basic - you remember?” Riley said, shielding his cigarette as he tried to light it.  Most of the C-rations had become pretty wet during the day’s trek, and the lot of us were finding it difficult to get our matches to function, let alone get the cigarettes to light.  He puffed a couple times, successful, and the glowing ember was a warm spot in the darkness.  

“Yeah,” Edwards groaned.  “There was that night mission - remember that?  The one where our bridge got wiped away because of the floods.  God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so muddy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Riley laughed, and a few men around them chuckled.  We were all disgusting, caked in mud and our canvas shoes were soaked through.  Leather rotted too quickly in the damp of the jungle, but our fatigues were light and tended to dry faster than those we’d worn at Basic.  Didn’t stop our toes from freezing, though, if the shoes didn’t dry by nightfall.  

“It was miserable, though, wasn’t it?  Ranin’ all the goddamn time.  Fucking Washington,” Edwards bitched, and there was a general murmur of assent from the assembled group.  Bones shifted from where he lay next to me - Spock was in some sort of meditative trance, said it helped with his concentration during firefights, and he didn’t seem to be paying attention.  

“Dunno what the hell they’re goin’ on about,” Bones muttered.  “Say what you want about Washington, but they got nice summers.  It didn’t rain that much.”  

“It was cloudy a lot,” I agreed.  “Cloudy doesn’t mean rain.”  

“Better than the damn heat in Texas,” he said after a minute.  “Insufferable, dry weather.  Thought I was going to melt.”  

“I don’t know how you managed to live in Georgia,” I said, grinning.  “God, half the time I was breathing in more water than I was drinking.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a damn fool that wouldn’t know how to properly hydrate if it meant saving your life,” Bones grumbled.  “I’ve already had to stitch up Uhura, don’t make me deal with you passin’ out from heat stroke or some other dumb affliction.” 

“Quit your complaining,” I whispered.  “Soon enough you’ll be sleeping in a real bed and have an actual working medical tent to live out of.  That’ll make you happy, right?” 

“So long’s I never have to see any of you in there,” Bones said, settling further into his bedroll.  

But that’s it, isn’t it?  Memory isn’t always right.  It gets skewed.  Last night the rain had stopped and the stars were out - we were camping on the edge of this rice paddy and I was on perimeter duty for the first few hours of watch.  I went out and looked at the horizon, tried to find the constellations, my familiar stars.  

I searched and searched but I couldn’t find Orion, or Ursa Major.  Couldn’t find any of the patterns that made the sky familiar.  The moon was off somewhere else and, if I didn’t know better, I could’ve been on a different planet, looking at the heavens from an entirely different point of view.  I thought that maybe I could see Mars, way off on the lower right horizon, but I wasn’t sure.  There were lots of red stars in the sky.  

As I looked, I heard the low voice of a man I didn’t know talking to his buddy about the most recent mission.  

“Yeah, I shot down four of them bastards, two of ‘em with AK-47s in their hands.  Just - _pow, pow_!  Never saw me comin’.  I’m like a ghost, I am.”

“I got six,” came the voice of the other man.  “Check this out - got teeth from ‘em.  Thinkin’ about displayin’ them, when we get back to base.”  

“Fuckin’ hell, man, that’s sick,” came the first voice, but it sounded appreciative.  “Hey, you see the way Blackwell took out those cunts at the last camp?  Real smooth, it was.  Four clean shots, right between the eyes.  The guys say they gave up the location of their fuckin’ comrades.  Can you believe it?  Slope pussies can’t even stand up under some good ol’ fashioned pressure.”  

“I’d like to get my hands on one of ‘em,” said the second man.  “They ain’t got no morals, you know?  Do anything for some change - fuck, bet if I had my gun they’d do it for free.  Heard they put out real nice.”

“Gotta miss the girls back home.  At least they didn’t reek of jungle shit.  My girl smelled real nice all the time, like vanilla or somethin’.  Bein’ here, makes me wonder if she’s still gonna be there when I get back.  Wouldn’t want her runnin’ off with Jody.  Fuck, but I miss her cunt.”  

Wistful laughter followed, and I chose to stop listening.  I didn’t want to hear any more.  I didn’t remember Blackwell taking out all four of the women in the last slope camp.  I remember him shooting two in the temple, but it felt like he killed all four with bullets straight between the eyes.  It felt like an execution that he’d planned and implemented.  So I guess the soldier wasn’t wrong, exactly.  It was Blackwell who’d killed the girls, even if it wasn’t his finger pulling all the triggers.  Still didn’t make it better.  Didn’t make it right.

I felt inside my front pocket for the two notes Spock had left me, felt the soft paper beneath my fingertips.  I thought I remembered the way his lips felt, pressed against mine, how his broad chest looked underneath his greens.  What was worse - killing enemy broads, or thinking about a fellow soldier like a man thinks about a woman?  Kill a man out here, they’ll give you a goddamn medal.  Love a man and they give you a dishonorable discharge, a death sentence for your life.  

What does that make us?  

I wish I could see the stars at night.  Wish I could see Pike again, at least hear his voice, harsh and staticky over the tones of a landline.  I feel strange, like I’m coming to this ledge inside me and if I’m not careful I might fall off.  I don’t want to become a man like Blackwell, but I worry that I already am.  And I wonder if I haven’t already fallen over that ledge a long time ago and I’m waiting for someone to tell me that I’m already dead, that I’m broken and bleeding and beyond repair.  

I’ve been having this dream since we got here.  In the dream, I’m on top of El Capitan.  I see the valley below and I can feel the rock under my feet.  I walk up to the edge and night falls, and I can’t see what’s before me anymore.  It could be more rock, or it could be open air.  I see the moon in the distance but it’s huge, it’s so close I can touch it and I reach my arm out, prepare to take a step so that I can finally walk on the moon, feel its fine earth under my fingertips, breathe in the cold and dark of space.  

I lift my foot to move, to take that last leap towards something I can feel out there ( _waiting for me, just waiting for me, right beyond my reach_ ) when someone else’s hand grabs mine, pulls me back on land.  

“Careful, Jim,” Spock whispers in my ear, and I look down and see the drop before me, the certain death from which he’s saved me.  I turn to face him and he looks different, almost greenish under the Northern Lights that have appeared above us, and I reach out to trace one of his eyebrows with my thumb.  Spock makes a choked noise and I look down, realize that there is something dark gushing from his chest.  My hand goes to staunch the wound and it comes back sticky with blood; I look at Spock, terrified, and watch as it starts to flow from the corner of his mouth.  

“No, Spock, we need to find Bones, he’ll fix you,” I say, but Spock collapses onto the rocky earth of El Capitan, clutching at my shirt, trying to fit his fingers into mine.  

“Jim-” he chokes through the blood, and then he goes slack in my arms.  

Every time, I leave his body bleeding into the rock.  

Every time, I turn back to the edge, and I jump.  


	42. October 3, 1969

We’ve reached our main base of operations for the area, and it’s nice, after spending so damn long in the jungle - it feels a little bit like home.  Well, as much as home can feel like - we’re being housed in barracks that are so cramped you barely got room to breathe, and I think I saw some rats crawling around the mess our first night here.  But there are cots, and something resembling a mattress, and scratchy, moth-eaten blankets and it sort of feels like heaven.  

The compound is small for how many people it’s housing, and there’s Americal brass stationed here.  A lot of missions come out of this area, I guess, heading north into territory terrorized by the Viet Cong.  I’ve heard more of the guys talking about how much the locals hate us.  I can’t attest to that, because they’re giving us a few days off before we head out on our next assignment.  

I figure anything’s better than the sorry fucks that are being sent to Cambodia.  Only horror stories come from that front.  But then again, can war produce any stories that aren’t horrific?  

We’ve been assigned a separate building to sleep in.  It looks kind of like it used to be some sort of storage shed before they decided to convert it to quarters, but we aren’t complaining - it’ll be nice to just share a space with people we know.  We think they put us there because of Uhura - minimize the risk of any sort of lawsuit occurring - and I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Chekov and Sulu have already converted an upturned crate into a table and have been using their C-ration cigarettes to play poker.  Uhura’s been watching them with a sort of passive interest - probably just waiting for the right time to deal herself in and take all their smokes.  

We’ve got a regulation ten beds and they’ve put us with one of Bones’ med buddies - M’Benga, a black guy of stocky build who should be intimidating but somehow you can’t be afraid of him because his eyes are incredibly gentle.  The other two cots are just lying there dormant, and I wonder when they’re gonna try to place someone else with us.  

Something else - Spock and I were called into command to give a report on what happened with Sgt. Blackwell back at the camp we raided.  Neither of us much wanted to relive it, but we slogged through camp anyways to the officers’ quarters.  (The camp smells like mud and shit and blood, like sweat and smoke and a lingering hint of napalm.  It’s disgusting, but I guess you get used to it.  That’s what everyone says, anyways.)

So we go in to give our report, and who the hell’s sitting there but Christopher fucking Pike.  

“Jim!” he said, but I remembered myself and stood to attention - there were other brass in the tent and I couldn’t let myself slip up now.  

“Captain Pike,” I said, throwing a salute, and Spock followed suit.  

“At ease, gentlemen,” he said, the rough lines of his weather-beaten face softening, and we took the seats across the table from him.  “How are you doing?” 

I chanced a quick glance at Spock; he raised his eyebrow in a clear, _you talk, you’re the Sergeant here,_ expression.  I grinned.  

“Tired, Sir.  It was a long walk.”  

“Sorry about that,” Pike said, shuffling papers on his desk until he found what looked like a mission report.  “Do you know why I’ve called you in for questioning today?” 

“I think so, Sir.”  

“Good.” Pike looked up at us.  “Would you please detail for me Sergeant Blackwell’s actions at the Viet Cong munitions camp?” 

I told him all I remembered, and when I was done, he turned to Spock.  

“Do you have anything to add, Corporal?”

Spock took a moment to consider.  “Merely that Sergeant Kirk did everything in his power to reason with Sergeant Blackwell, although he was not receptive to Kirk’s arguments.”

I willed the surprise off my face before Pike could see it.  _‘Everything in his power_ ’ - by which he meant what?  I did nothing.  I stood there and watched as one of my peers murdered two women, then ordered his subordinates to kill two more. 

“Thank you, Corporal, Sergeant,” Pike said, gathering the papers up and stacking them on one side of his desk.  “Kirk, may I speak to you in private?” 

Spock stood, said, “Thank you, Sir,” and left the room.  A Lieutenant followed him out.  

Pike turned the full weight of his gaze on me for the first time since I walked in the room and asked, “How are you doing, son?”

I considered, for a second, telling him everything.  Not about Spock, never about Spock, but - I thought about telling him how I had trouble getting to sleep, about the blood on my hands, about Frank and the quarry, about the way the men threw around words like “animal” and “cunt” like they were meaningless.  I thought about telling him that maybe - maybe - I wanted to survive this, because I thought I’d found something I could fight for.  I saw the words in my head, tasted them on the tip of my tongue.  

I said, “I’m fine, Pike, stop worrying about me.  It’s good to see you again.  I missed our talks.”  

“Me too, Jim, me too.  Look at you - a Sergeant!  How did that happen?” 

“Field promotion,” I said, and I did my best to give the words life, to remove all signs of bitterness from my voice.  

Pike whistled.  “What a way to move up in the world, huh?” 

I grimaced.  “Yeah.  He was a good guy.”  

“I’m sure he was,” Pike said, nodding.  “I hear you’ve got command of a peculiar little squad.” 

I laughed - I couldn’t help it.  “Yeah, ‘peculiar’ is one way to put it.  We’re small - just seven of us, including McCoy.”  

“The medic?” Pike asked, absently flipping through records.  

“Yeah.”  

“That’s not even a regulation squad.  They knew that when they formed it, right?” 

“Yeah.  I think it’s because of Uhura.” 

Pike looked up sharply.  “The girl?  She’s with you?” 

“Of course.  Gave us our own shed and everything.”  

Pike shook his head.  “It makes sense, what they’re doing - but it also makes you incredibly vulnerable out there.  That’s less men you know are covering your back.  What they’ve done is made it easy for you all to get killed.”  

“That ain’t anything new.”  

His expression softened.  “Shit, Jim-”

“I don’t mind, Pike. She’s a great soldier, easily worth two men.  I’d rather go out with friends by my side than with rapists and murderers.”  

“We’re all murderers, Jim.”  

The words felt like blows, and I locked them in some deep part of my chest, far away from my morality, far away from my values.  “I know, Pike.  Christ, do I know.”  

“I understand,” Pike said.  “I’ll warn you, though - you keep up the sort of record you’ve got going, they’ll start looking at your group for what they like to nickname infantry special ops, ‘cause obviously you’re not a Green Beret.  You’re exactly the sort of throwaway squadron they won’t care about losing to a POW camp.  You keep a sharp eye out, Jim.  I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I stood, smiling.  “Same goes for you, Chris.”  

“It’s a desk job!” he laughed.  “Nothing’s gonna happen to me here.”  

“You say that now!” I called behind me as I left his office.  Spock was waiting for me outside, and we walked back to the barracks together.  We didn’t talk, but we didn’t need to.  Some sort of mutual reassurance seemed to pass between us and I drifted further into his space; by the time we got back, our arms were brushing together as we walked.  

The low building was filled with cigarette smoke.  Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu were clustered around the poker table - it looked like Uhura had _finally_ dealt herself in - and Scotty… well. 

He was leaning up against the wall of the barracks, nursing a flask, an empty beer bottle curled loosely in his left hand.  Spock glanced at me and I nodded - _I’ll take care of this._

His eyes were unseeing as I approached him and tentatively sat down on the side of the bed.  “Hey, Scott.  You alive in there?”

Instead of startling, Scotty’s eyes turned to mine in a painstakingly slow movement.  He blinked twice, then said, “Jim?” 

“How much have you had?” I asked, gently prying the flask and the bottle from his grasp.  

“I don’t…” he said, finally seeming to realize what I was asking about.  “I don’ know.”  

“Probably enough for today, right?” I prodded, setting the beer bottle along the wall and hiding the flask underneath his cot.  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” 

“I keep seeing his face, when I close my eyes at night,” Scotty whispered, and I didn’t have to ask him who he was seeing.  I had those dreams too.

“Hey, hey, it’s gonna be all right, okay?  You did what you had to do, Scotty.  It was self-defense.”  

“He had a family, Jim, I’m sure.  A mom and dad and maybe even a sister or… and I took that from him.” 

“We all have families,” I said firmly.  “You got that, right?  We all have people we need to protect.  Some of us… are just better at it than others.”  

Scotty’s eyes were starting to droop.  “I cannae go back to sleep, Jim… I cannae see him again.  I…” 

“Take a deep breath, all right?” He did.  “That’s it.  Think about something else.  Think about your girl back home, okay?  Tell me about her.  What was she like?” 

His eyebrows drew together, like he was thinking really hard.  “Tall… long brown hair, and eyes like the moors.  Pale like snow on the highlands, an’ her laugh was like a river.  Beautiful.”  

“All right, Scott,” I said, smiling.  “That’s great.  Now think about her, okay?  And get some rest.”  

Scotty laid down on his bed and shut his eyes.  “Thanks, Jim.”  

“Anytime.”  I turned away from Scotty and saw Spock through the haze, sitting cross-legged on his bed, our chess set at his feet.  

It was with some relief that I let him beat me in chess - not once, but three times in a row.  


	43. October 8, 1969

How do you keep track of the dead?  

When a man dies, what happens to his soul?  His body lingers, it decays in the damp of the jungle and it rots away.  Maggots feed at the flesh, burrowing into sockets where they can hide.  Thrive.  

So what if you can’t reclaim the body?  If it lies there, in the jungle, is it still a man?  Is it still O’Brennan, or Taylor, or Johnson?  Or has it just become meat?  What about a man’s immortal soul - how do you keep track of that?  Is there even such a thing?  

I wonder sometimes if there’s a heaven - or fuck, if there’s a hell that accompanies that heaven, ‘cause that’s where I’ll be headed.  Not even because of the war.  Not because of the men I’ve put bullets in that are rotting in piles or that we burned in stacks.  

(We burn their bodies, sometimes, and we stand upwind.  It’s worse than napalm.)

Back in the Middle Ages, back when the Church still had a shit ton of power with the kings of Europe (back before Martin Luther and the reformation fucked things up irrevocably with the fine balance of power in the world), the Pope would find ways to justify wars.  During the Albigensian Crusade, the Pope approved the slaughter of thousands of Frenchmen just because they were heretics.  Fuck, not to say anything of the crusades to the Holy Land.  But there was this one Crusade, you know, I think it was the fourth or the fifth - the fourth, yeah, that sounds right - and the Crusaders fucking sacked Constantinople because the fucking Venetians or some shit tricked them into getting rid of their biggest rivals.  And, of course, Constantinople was the head of the Orthodox Church, so they weren’t Catholic, but they’d gotten on pretty well with Rome to that point because of the whole shared-Christiandom thing.  

So they attacked Constantinople and the Pope’s condemnation didn’t get there in time, but none of it mattered in the end because they won and they drove the Emperor from Constantinople, and they finally united the East and West under Catholicism.  And then, hell, it was cool, because they won the war, so who gives a shit if it wasn’t a properly sanctioned Holy War?  If they did it so that they could get ships from the Venetians in order to successfully make it to Jerusalem, wasn’t it justified?

(Was it the Venetians?  Could it have been Sicily?  Or maybe - I can’t remember.) 

They burned Constantinople as they sacked it.  Murdered, raped, looted, took priceless art and scrolls and destroyed them.  Destruction without purpose, death for death’s sake.  Fires on the walls, in the streets, in the library.  

(It was Venice, I’m sure of it.  It had to have been Venice.)

I’m not sure why, but this seemed - important -

(Is this Constantinople?  Why are we killing these people?  Isn’t this their fucking country?  Who is Venice?)

Do the people I kill over here - do they count towards the balance of my immortal soul?  If you weighed it against the Feather of Truth, would Anubis find me lacking?  

(Would Ammit consume my soul?) 

Does everyone think this way?  I don’t think so, somehow, and I can see why they wouldn’t, because I gunned down ten men yesterday on a raid outside Pinkville proper and it felt - 

It felt - 

(Good.) 

What does that make me?  I watched them fall under my fire and I felt - 

Like it was judgment day, and I was the one sending them to hell.  I chose to dispatch them from the earth - _me -_

_(Bam bam bam goes the rifle)_

And for a second there, I felt - I felt like - 

(God?) 

And I heaved a sigh of relief when it was cleared because none of Team Enterprise had died - we were safe, and together, and there was a fire in our eyes that no gook could touch because we were fighters and we would _live_.  

I smiled at Spock as we helped to clear the last bunker and I pulled a pack of cigarettes off a slope whose neck was slit, still trickling blood into the soft earth of the jungle, and I turned to my team and offered them smokes.  

They all took one - Bones, of course, was waiting back at camp to receive the injured, so he wasn’t present.  But the rest of us, we took them, smoked a dead man’s cigarettes like it was normal, like it was natural.  

( _We’re all murderers, Jim_.)

Is it just a matter of killing the right people?  

I think I’ve started to get pretty good at killing.  I think I could keep doing it, if it meant my team made it out alive.

( _I know, Pike.  Christ, do I know_.)  

This ain’t a Holy War.  Nobody’s pretending that it is, but there’s a Pastor stationed at our camp, someone to hear us and absolve us.  Because what choice do we have?  

Did the Crusaders have a choice, when they attacked Constantinople?  They were so focused on getting to Jerusalem they’d have done anything for supplies - and that’s what they did, didn’t they?  Anything. 

(Are we so desperate to stay alive, to get back home across the sea, that we’d do anything to survive?  Is that how you make good soldiers?  I guess Uncle Sam would know by now.  They always tell us that we’ve never lost a war.)  

I worry, though, sometimes.  

I worry that ledge - the one I dream about - I worry it’s a hell of a lot closer than I think because how do you - how can you go on, if you keep thinking about all the dead?  

How do you live with yourself?  If I notch marks into the floor beneath my bed, one for every gook I’ve killed, would that make it better?  If I prayed for their immortal souls, would that absolve me of my sins?  If I remembered all their faces - 

_(And I’ve already forgotten most of them)_

\- would that somehow make it better?  I can’t bring them back to life.  I can’t bring them back to life any more than I can bring the Library of Constantinople back from its ashy grave, any more than I can undo the rape and death done by the men of the Fourth Crusade.  

If someone wrote a book about all the wars in history, all the dead we’ve made, how many volumes would it fill?  There are already so many forgotten, so what’s a few more thousand?  

_(And how can God talk, when he asked Abraham to murder his own son?)_

How do you keep track of the dead?  I’m here.  I’m breathing.  Is it my problem, or should I leave it for better men?

I watch the notches underneath my cot.  They grow.  

I watch the wall of the barracks right above Uhura’s bed.  There’s over a dozen little circles, carved into the wood.  

Scotty drinks for each one, like he’s toasting their memory.  

Sulu and Chekov, they keep a tally.  They bet cigarettes on the difference of kills at the end of a mission.  Chekov, 7, Sulu, 5 - Sulu owes Chekov two cigarettes.  

(Sometimes, it’s easier if you make it a game.  It’s less real, that way.  And they’re just children.  Just eighteen years old.)  

Bones keeps a tally of the men who die under his hand, because he couldn’t save them, he couldn’t stop the bullets or the grenades or the land mines in time.  I don’t know how he atones.  Sometimes, after a bad battle, he won’t talk for hours.  

Spock comes to me with our chess board, and when nobody is looking, tangles his fingers with mine.  I don’t know why he does it - to feel again, to feel something other than the cool press of a gun or a grenade in his palm?  

(Because he knows I crave it too?  Crave the feel of his lips on mine, even when they’re spattered with the blood of other men?  Even when our hands are covered in crimson, and the creases in our palms won’t come clean?) 

I watch the notches grow, and I wonder if, someday, I’ll become numb.  

I wonder if it’s written into our blood, passed down for thousands of years, through history.  

_This is how you kill.  And this is how you learn not to feel a thing._


	44. October 14, 1969

“Jim,” Spock whispered, and the words felt stilted, swallowed by the humidity that still lingered in the air, out here under the palms and the taro leaves.  

“Yeah?” I said, just as quiet - the rest of our squad was asleep, and all I could see in the dim light of our slipshod camp was rows of bedrolls, chests falling steadily and evenly.  I gripped my rifle a little tighter, although I didn’t think his tone was a warning.  You never know.  

Spock shifted his position, settled in next to me on the soft earth, our backs against a tree and his side pressed against mine.  He breathed deeply.  “The air smells different here.”

“Not like home,” I agreed.  “Warmer.” 

“Darker,” Spock added.  “It is fascinating, how we can be so far away from home, and yet…” 

I glanced over at him; his face was mostly hidden in the near-dark.  Even with what little I could see, he was still fucking gorgeous.  “And yet,” I said slowly, “I feel like I’m there now.”  

“As if I had never left,” Spock murmured.  

“Well, minus the guns, I guess,” I said, laughing.  

Spock smiled, lips turning up just slightly in the dark.  “Even that is not so different.” 

“S’pose not.”  

“We are halfway across the globe, but I do not feel homesickness.  I had thought… I had thought I would feel something.  I realized - perhaps I never had a place, back there.  I am the child of two worlds - my father’s, with his military background, and his rules; my mother’s, and her compassion, her kindness.

“When Brown died…” 

I winced - Brown had been shot twice the day before as we raided a camp, once in the knee and once in the chest.  Spock had waved me ahead and had laid with Brown as he died, bled out onto Spock’s fatigues, staining them a dark rust that he had tried to wash out in a river.  He mostly failed - a large mark spread like watercolor from his left ribcage to right below his hipbone.  

“When Brown died,” Spock started again, “I thought of my mother.”  

“She was a nurse, right?” 

“During the war, yes,” Spock said.  “As I felt him die in my arms, I wondered how she was able to remain strong, to remain kind, after watching all those men… all those soldiers die on her tables.  I was eighteen when my mother died, and I realized I cannot recall the last time I told her I loved her, before the accident.  As I watched his skin pale, I thought - she must have been afraid.  She died alone, and I cannot remember telling her I loved her.

“I find myself wishing I were not at ease here, in my father’s world.  But… I find that I have never felt such a strong sense of belonging as I do when I am at your side, Jim.  When we are fighting, or passing the time,” he added, with a small gesture towards Team Enterprise, “I do not feel alone.”  

I shifted my rifle to my other hand, and wrapped one arm around his back, resting my head on his shoulder.  “Maybe that’s what makes us work,” I said.  “We’re all a little broken - some of us, more than others… maybe you’re not the only one.  Think about it - Chekov and Sulu, always working to prove their loyalty, to earn their status as American citizens.  Scotty, born under our flag but brought up someplace else, trying to find his way in the world.  Uhura, a black lesbian broad fighting for civil rights in the South and Bones, whose heart’s so goddamn big he can’t stand to see people suffer, so he gives up his whole life to join the fucking army.  

“Maybe this is the only place we can belong, Spock.  Maybe we ain’t fit for anything else.”  

I watched his hand move out of the corner of my eye, inching until it rested on my leg.  I shifted my torso slightly, so that I was facing him, and checked the bedrolls around us once more to make sure nobody was watching.  

“Jim,” he whispered, and it was the sound of a dying man, someone who didn’t know if he’d live to see tomorrow.  

I surged forward to catch his lips with mine.  It was slow, cautious, quiet, a gentle slide of tongue on tongue and I searched out the cavity behind his teeth, licking in deeper, tasting the smoke of the cigarette he’d had not an hour ago.  His hand came up to tangle in my hair and I stifled a gasp into his mouth, sucking, pulling on his lower lip until he wrenched himself away, raggedly gasping for breath.  

“I want-” he whispered, and I nodded.  

“Me too, but I don’t - we’re on watch-”

“There are two others on watch just sixty feet away across the camp, the odds-”

“Don’t want to hear the odds,” I hissed, diving in to nip again at his lower lip.  “Let’s just - the other side of this tree, at least-”

I felt him nod against my palm.  “Wait ten seconds, and follow.”  

I did as he asked, and then his hands were sweeping my stomach, pulling up my shirt and tracing broad strokes over the planes of my chest.  He rubbed one of my nipples and I bit his neck to keep from making a sound, digging my teeth in right above his clavicle.  

“Let me-” I whispered, tugging on his waistband and Spock refocused his attention on my lips as I unbuttoned his pants and finally - _finally_ \- closed my hand around his dick.  

“Please,” he gasped, reaching for my belt even as I began to jack him off, trying to find the right rhythm based on the way his lips moved under mine, the amount of noises he was trying to swallow down.  

And then his beautiful, long fingers had wrapped around me and I tried to remember that we were deep in the backcountry of Vietnam, that we had sleeping soldiers not fifteen feet away, that I had to be quiet otherwise we could get dishonorably discharged, but it was so fucking hard to concentrate when he was stroking me like that.  

Unconsciously, I began to push into his fist as he did the same until we were fucking each other’s hands, and it was the best thing I’d felt in my entire life even though it was just a hand job, because it was _Spock_ giving it.  

He came first, his body seizing silently and I wished I could see his face, I wished we didn’t have to shroud this in darkness because I wanted to know what he looked like as he came.  Just the feeling of his body convulsing under mine was enough to push me over and I came on his fist.  I watched in disbelief as he raised his hand to his mouth and licked it clean, eyes locked with mine the whole time even though they were just two pinpricks in the dark.  

“Oh my god,” I panted, kissing him again with fervor after he had finished.  “You - you-”

“We must return, lest our absence be noticed,” Spock whispered against my lips.  

“How’m I supposed to concentrate on shooting things after that?” I teased, grinning.  

“I am certain that if anyone could find a way to do battle while post-coital, it would be you, Jim,” Spock said.  

“Fair point,” I conceded, sitting back and letting him dress.  

I fell asleep that night, thinking about what he said.  _I find that I have never felt such a strong sense of belonging as I do when I am at your side, Jim._ And I think - well, I think I know what he’s saying.  And I wish to hell it could have been different.  I wish that we’d met somewhere else, at some other time, where we could’ve been good together.  Where we could’ve been whole. 


	45. October 18, 1969

We’ve barely gotten back from our last mission - have only had about six hours to sit on our cots, sleep, atone for the dead - and already I’ve been called in to see Pike.  I love the old bastard, but I’m getting fucking sick of seeing his mug only for him to give us orders.  

“Captain Pike, my team has been going nonstop for the past week,” I complained as soon as he sat me down and pushed a file across the table for me to peruse.  “We gotta have some rest, sir.  We aren’t at the top of our game.” 

“This is a time-sensitive mission, Sergeant,” he said, but today there was little familiarity in his eyes.  Their warmth was nearly gone.  “You’re the best squad we’ve got here, and the smallest.  Your stealth and marksmanship records are unparalleled.  We need a team like yours, Kirk, and there aren’t any others at this base that could do the job half as well.”  

Resigned, I picked up the file.  “Scouting mission?” I asked, surprised.  I didn’t know why he wanted us for this - scouting missions were routine, and there were others who had been trained better and for this exact purpose.  

“With the possibility of combat, yes, which is why the brass wants you.”  

I scrubbed my hand through my hair.  “Captain, I really think-”

“I won’t hear any more complaints,” he interrupted, and I snapped my mouth shut.  “You’ll follow your orders, like any other soldier in this goddamn army.  We ask this of your team because you are the best for the job, not out of some misplaced sense of retribution.  Do you understand, Sergeant?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“That is the mission briefing,” Pike said, gesturing towards the file folder in my hands.  “Read it, and report to your squad.  I want you ready at 1100 tomorrow; we will be airlifting you to your drop point.”  

“Yes, sir.”  I stood.  “Thank you, sir.”  

Pike’s mask slid off his face, and suddenly he was the same man I had known since I was a boy - war-weary and exhausted, lines like canyons on the plain of his forehead, the corners of his mouth.  

“And - Jim - I’m sorry.”  

I nodded.  “I know.”  

“Be safe out there, son.”  

“I’ll do my best, Pike.” 

I paused outside his office, scanning over the mission briefing, feeling my stomach sink somewhere down earthside the further my eyes traveled on the page.  And so I trudged back through camp, careful to avoid the puddles of sludge that had appeared with the most recent thunderstorm.  It was still raining, and my hair was soaked through by the time I made it back to our barracks, file dry and safe under my jacket.  

I paused in the doorway, grinning at the sight that greeted me.  Sulu, Chekov, Bones, and Scotty were huddled around one of the tables, playing cards and drinking Budweiser (honest to god Budweiser, and I wondered where Scotty had found it, because he’s always able to find booze), while Spock and Uhura were bent over the other, poring over Spock’s Vietnamese translation book.  Uhura’s mouth was moving, warping around foreign words and Bones was piping the local American music station in on our single transistor radio.  M’Benga was on shift, but he also wasn’t exactly part of our squad, so I guessed it didn’t matter that he wasn’t present for the briefing.  

“Hey guys,” I said at last, and Spock turned to me with a smile in his eyes.  

“What’s up, Cap?” Sulu asked without looking up from his hand.  

“Pike gave us a mission,” I said, and that shut down the party real fast.  Bones sighed dramatically and turned down the radio; the rest of them laid their cards on the table and shifted in their seats to face me.  Spock gently closed the book and slid it across to Uhura, who took it and set it on her bed.  

“What is the verdict?” Chekov asked, visibly reining in his accent so that the sentence could be easily understood.  

“Scouting mission,” I said, sitting down on Bones’ bed.  He glared at me.  

“Why on earth do they need us for a scouting mission?” Scotty asked in disbelief, tipping back the rest of his beer.  

“Pike gave me some crap about combat chances, our record-” 

“Which is sterling, so why the hell-”

“I know, Ny, I know,” I said, gripping the file a little tighter, as if by crumpling it in my fist I could make the mission disappear.  “And I know you all are tired, and that we’ve had a long month since we’ve gotten here.  I know that, and Pike knows that.  And all we deserve is a goddamn break but we aren’t gonna get one, because that’s not why we’re here.”  

I took a deep breath.  “They’re sending us southwest, and we’ll be taking a chopper to a designated drop point.  We’ll be mapping out an area near the Cambodia-Laos border.”

“Why?” Spock asked, and that - well, that was the question I really didn’t want to answer.  

“There were some men out there, went missing about a week ago.  They were also scouting the area, and they lost contact with the base.  Brass thinks they might’ve been taken as prisoners, but they’ve no idea where the gooks are camped out in order to send in troops.  The mission is pretty simple - figure out where they’re located so we can call in reinforcements, get our guys out alive.  Or, if they’re already dead, we blow them all up anyways.”

“Jim,” Bones said slowly, “this sounds dangerous.” 

“It is,” I agreed.  “Which is why you’ll be accompanying the six of us into the bush.  In case anyone gets injured, and we can’t call for an extraction.  Considering the men they lost out there, this mission is high risk, and…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the statement.  

“If we encounter forces beyond what we alone can take, it may cost us our lives,” Spock finished quietly. 

I nodded. “Yeah.  I’m sorry.”  

“We’ve gotten through bad shit before,” Uhura murmured.  “We can do it again.”

I shook my head.  “It isn’t right.  We aren’t experienced, we aren’t veterans.  We’ve been here for _weeks_ \- there are other units more prepared for this sort of mission.  I just - I don’t understand.”  

“We are more than just a unit, Keptin,” Chekov said with a tentative grin.  “We haf something that the other units do not haf.”  

“And what is that, Pasha?” Sulu asked, nudging Chekov in the side and returning his smile. 

“We haf Spock and ze Keptin.  And we are better for it.”  

“Shut up, Pasha, you’re making me blush,” I said, laughing, but really I just wanted to hug the kid because the team was grinning too - they’d found something to laugh about, even though we were going to be headed towards Cambodia in the morning.  

And I guess that’s when I realized - I loved them all, every member of my team, like they were my family, like they were my very own flesh and blood.  It would kill me to lose any of them - it would absolutely fucking destroy me, and I would give my life for theirs over and over and over again without a single thought.  

My eyes met Spock’s, and that feeling I got, deep in my chest, like lighting, like electricity, raced through my nervous system, setting my skin on fire.  Maybe I didn’t think of _all_ of them like family - Spock was something else entirely.  

“Hey, wanna spar?” I asked him, setting aside the file folder.  

“It is raining,” Spock said, brow furrowed.  

“And?  Since when has a little rain ever bothered you?” 

Spock nodded.  “I concede.  At the training grounds?” 

“Yeah.  Anyone want to place bets?” I asked the others, but they were already reaching for their cigarette packs, placing wagers.

“I’ll take Spock for ten,” Uhura was saying to Chekov, who shook his head sadly.  

“Nyet, Nyota, ze Keptin has been outperforming him during drills.  You are making a mistake.”  

“You children,” Bones said, but pulled out his small stash of C-ration cigarettes that he usually used as bribes.  

“C’mon,” I said, clapping Spock on the shoulder, letting my fingers linger for just a bit too long before squeezing the muscles gently and letting go.  “Good practice, right?” 

“If you say so, Jim,” Spock said with a small, private smile that went straight to my stomach.  

And for a while, we didn’t think about it.  It was just the seven of us, hanging out, sparring and betting and playing cards and drinking booze and laughing about Sulu’s pin-ups or how Uhura had a bad habit of naming the rats we would see around the barracks, growing attached to them and feeding them scraps from the mess.  

We laughed, and I touched my fingers to Spock’s under the table, remembering how they felt wrapped around me, remembering how his tongue felt against my lips.  And I wondered - was this it?  And - why?  Why not someone else?  Why were we the ones who had to be put in harm’s way?  And did that make me a bad person, if I wished - if I wished it was anyone but us, anyone at all - the soldiers in the next barracks over, the ones back in Saigon?  Is that selfishness, or self-preservation?  And does it matter, in the end?  

But for now, we are children, and children don’t have to think about the future.  

(But that’s the thing about innocence, isn’t it?  Once it’s lost, it can’t ever be reclaimed.) 


	46. October 19, 1969

Last night, after the beer had been consumed, after the last of our whiskey had been shot and we were all comfortable and dry and warm inside our barracks, Bones passed around stationary and a few pens, and we did what we’d been afraid to do all this time, throughout all the missions we’d had together.  

We wrote.  

The paper was damp and the ink couldn’t help but smudge but we sat there on our beds, listening to the Beatles on the radio, the only other sound pens scratching on paper.  The letters were custom, notes that would be given to our loved ones in the event of our deaths, and I thought about writing to Winona, to Sam, but I couldn’t.  The only one who’d ever been there for me was Pike, and he was here.  He was the one that sent me on the mission in the first place.  

“I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping  
While my guitar gently weeps”

 ~~_Fuck, Spock  
_ ~~_~~Dear Spock~~  
_ _~~Hey, Spock.~~  
_ _Hey there, Spock._

_You might not ever get this letter.  I hope to god you don’t, because then I’ll be dead and you’ll have to deal with that fact, and I can’t bear to think of you here alone on this earth without me.  Well, no, that’s not it.  I can’t bear to think of leaving you behind.  A worse thought for me is a world without you, and I hope to god I never have to live through that, because I’m not sure I’d be able to.  The universe needs a Spock, you know?  Sure as trees need water or man needs the earth on which we stand, the universe needs you.  I can’t help but feel like you’re gonna do something great someday, Spock.  You’re gonna change the world._

“I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping  
While my guitar gently weeps” 

_We’ve known each other such a short time, and yet it feels like I’ve got some part of you deep within my bones.  You asked me once if I believed in fate, and I told you I didn’t know.  I think I have an answer for you, now - I think I believe that we were supposed to meet, although maybe not in the way we did.  When I saw your eyes for the first time, it felt like coming home._

_“_ I don’t know why nobody told you  
How to unfold your love” 

_And shit, Spock, but I’ve never been too good with emotions, especially not with guys.  Because for men like us, it’s fuck and run, and we don’t look back because that creates skeletons.  It creates shadows in back alleys and phantom aches in my marrow.  And there’s so much I want to tell you, so much I want to say, but I’ve never been in love before, and it’s hard to know if this is really how it feels._

_“_ I don’t know how someone controlled you   
They bought and sold you” 

_You are inescapable, Spock.  You are like gravity - I am caught in orbit around you and I can’t pull free.  I’ve spent my entire life learning not to rely on someone else, and then to find that I can’t imagine living without another, well, that’s terrifying.  But it’s like all the feelings I’d been saving up inside me have made themselves known at once and I have no idea how to hold them back.  And the worst part of it, is that I don’t deserve you.  I’m not worthy to fucking hold your pinky finger, let alone your hand, I’m not good enough to so much as share your air._

“I look at the world and I notice it’s turning  
While my guitar gently weeps” 

_Nobody knows this, but I guess if you’re reading this letter then I’m dead and I think someone has to see proof of it.  I’ve had blood on my hands since I was thirteen, Spock - I pushed my stepfather down in the Tarsus Co. Quarry and I watched as he bled out onto the rocks.  I watched as he died, and I did nothing to help, and that was the day I first knew death.  And people think my father - my father, George Kirk - has shaped my life, and you know what?  He has.  I denied it up until I got my draft letter and I tried to disassociate, tried to run away from his shadow and I even took his pocket watch out to Yosemite and dug it into the earth, like a burial.  Like I was letting go.  I wonder, sometimes, if he’d survived, what would I have become?  Not a killer, I don’t think.  Not someone who could watch a man die without saying a word._

“With every mistake we must surely be learning  
Still my guitar gently weeps”

_I will never tell you this, because you would turn away from me.  It is one thing to kill a man under orders, under duress, and another entirely to watch one die in cold blood.  But I’m not sorry I did it, and that’s how I know I’m going to hell, because good men atone for their sins.  They make it right with God.  I think a list of all my sins would stretch across the Pacific ocean all the way back to San Francisco, and so you can know that I’ve gone to my death fully aware that I won’t be going to heaven.  Not when I’ve got blood underneath my fingernails, on the creases of my palm._

_“_ I don’t know how you were diverted  
You were perverted too” 

_The funny thing is, is that if the army found this letter they’d have more to say about me writing to you this way than anything else.  They wouldn’t care that I killed Frank - no, that’s good practice, that’s the harsh reality for a soldier, but loving a man?  That there’s grounds for discharge, and isn’t that just the fucking dumbest shit you’ve ever heard?_

“I don’t know how you were inverted  
No one alerted you” 

_But here we are, clustered in a circle, writing letters to our loved ones - Pasha and Sulu to their mothers, Uhura to Christine, Scotty to god only knows who and Bones to his baby girl but me?  I’m fucking writing mine to you.  I feel like the Phaethon to your Eridanus - I am become fire and death and I need something to stop it, I need something to shut it down.  I thought if I became the sun I could stop loving you, but here I am - sparks are running through my blood like a California wildfire and I wonder if you feel it too.  Sometimes I think that, if I get too close to you, you’ll burn._

_“_ I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping  
While my guitar gently weeps”

_And if I truly am gone, Spock - if this is the last time you see my words or hear my voice and if I die tomorrow, remember that you all meant the world to me.  I would die beside each member of the Enterprise Team a hundred times, take a thousand hours of torture and die a million deaths for each of you in turn.  But know, Spock - know that I would follow you further.  That I would pull you back from death itself, if I could, without a second thought.  Know that your life means more to me than my own, and that I would take your immortal soul as my responsibility, were it to mean you lived again.  I would follow you to the end of the galaxy and further, and even if we were alone I would not mind, so long as you were by my side.  I don’t know when it happened, Spock.  But I know, now.  I know what love feels like, and I think it feels like this._

“Look at you all  
Still my guitar gently weeps” 

_Remember, Spock, that death is not an end, but a beginning.  I think there is some place for us, out there, if only we search hard enough, if we keep pushing our limits, keep searching the stars._

_Goodbye, Spock.  Live long, and prosper._

 

_Jim_


	47. October 21, 1969

We’ve been camping now for two days, steadily making our way southwest, closer and closer towards the border.  The air around us feels heavy, like the deep breath the world takes right before lightning strikes, and I can’t help but feel like something is about to happen.  Like it’s hanging in the air, over our very heads. 

We risked a fire, tonight, since we’d searched a five-mile radius around our location; besides, we’d leave someone on guard and take shifts, just in case.  

“Better set up the tents, guys,” Sulu had said as Chekov gathered wood for the fire.  “I think it’s going to rain tonight.”  

Standard issue, four tents - one for Uhura (not because none of us wanted to sleep with her - sleep _next to her_ , that is, but because we thought it was the right thing and all, her being a woman), and three for the rest of us.  I was about to move my pack into the tent Bones had erected when Uhura came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Scotty’s sharing with Len tonight, Jim.  You’re with Spock.”  

“Since when?” I called after her as she began to walk back towards the fire.  

“Do I really have to answer that question?” Bones said from behind me, peering out from the mouth of the tent.  His lips were set in a grim line and his brow was ridged deep with exasperation.  

“I don’t know, Bones, do you?” I grumbled, picking my pack up from where I’d dropped it and heading over to where Spock was hammering the last peg into our tiny, fragile shelter.  

“I sure hope not,” I heard Bones say, and my scowl deepened.  

“Jim?” Spock questioned, obviously just as surprised as I was that I had somehow ended up sleeping with - _sleeping in -_ his tent.  

“No idea.  Uhura just-” 

The realization hit me with something akin to a physical blow.  Spock watched it all play out on my face, then nodded.  

“I believe I understand.”  

“I mean,” I said, ducking underneath the canvas and beginning to unfurl my bedroll, “it’s not as if we’d-” I waved my hands, frantically searching for the phrase.

“Do anything?” Spock suggested.

“Yeah.”  

“You do not wish to?” 

I frowned, but didn’t turn to look at him.  “No, it’s not that I don’t want to, I mean - to be honest, we haven’t had much of a chance, and-”

“Jim,” Spock said, reaching out to touch his fingers to mine.  I stilled, and turned to meet his gaze.  His eyes, which in the dim half-light of the jungle at dusk were nearly black, were warm with humor.  “Do you not think we should… accept this gift, especially when it was given most graciously?” 

I huffed, and pressed my fingers more securely into his own.  “I guess… I guess you’re right.  But - only inside the tent, yeah?  No - touching, or anything, outside, I mean-”

“I would not dream of it, Sergeant,” Spock said, smiling at the traitorous blush that turned my cheeks so red it could be seen even at dusk.  

“Shut up,” I laughed, stumbling out of the low tent and back into the clearing.  Chekov had a pretty good blaze going by now, and the others (save Scotty) had already taken seats around the fire.  

“I said nothing,” Spock protested, grin vanishing around company - trying to keep up the charade, I guessed.  

“Yeah, yeah.”

Scotty reentered our small ring of light, holding something from his right hand.  

“What the hell are those?” Uhura asked, eyeing the lumps suspiciously.  

“Duck,” Scotty crowed, brandishing them triumphantly in her face.  “Tonight, lads, we feast!”

Chekov offered to help clean, and then Sulu monitored the spits as the ducks roasted.  The heat from the fire wasn’t really necessary, considering the heat we’d been trekking in all day and the relative humidity, but Scotty, Uhura, and Bones huddled together on one side of the fire, legs pressed against each other’s; Chekov and Sulu did the same from where they were cooking our meal.  

“You know, Cap,” Sulu said slowly, not taking his eyes off the rotating duck.  “If you to want to - I don’t know - just so you know, we won’t mind.”  

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Karu,” I said, trying to laugh it off, but the words sounded weak, even to me.  

“We’ve known for a while,” Uhura said, voice close to inaudible and speaking directly to the earth.  And honestly, I was surprised she was talking this way about something she usually spoke of with ease, and then I remembered that I was her CO, and… Yeah.  That could be awkward.  “He’s saying that you don’t have to… do whatever it is you’re doing.  We won’t tell.”  

I mean, I guess I’d known that it was all right but I hadn’t expected them to say anything.  I’d thought it was a - a side reaction, maybe the effect of proximity with Uhura, that made them all right with me sharing a tent with Spock, just so we could have time.  

“It’s not-” I found myself saying, but then Spock reached over and took my hand in his.  

“Thank you,” he said simply, and that… was it.  

We ate and laughed, told bad jokes and stories about our childhoods.  Scotty brought out a chocolate bar he’d been saving for a special occasion and we each got a square, savored them before smoking so that the cigarettes wouldn’t ruin the taste.  

“You know, I heard the brothers have dope,” Uhura said at one point, leaning lazily against the trunk of Scotty’s body, cigarette dangling from her lips.  “Could try to score us some, when we get back there.  Richards owes me a favor; I gave him a shiner so he’d get out of drills one day.”  

Most of us were more than enthused; Spock and Bones just rolled their eyes.  

“Come on, Doc, lighten up,” Sulu said, leaning over to punch Bones in the arm.  “A guy deserves a little somethin’ after a secret scouting mission to find POWs, right?” 

“We all get outta here in one piece, you can smoke whatever the hell you want,” Bones said, shifting slightly to avoid the smoke from our (now mostly coals) fire.  “Until then, let’s focus on staying sober and _safe_ , so that your poor field medic does’t have to deal with any serious injuries, all right?” 

I grinned as a chorus of “Yes, mom”s went up from the group, but couldn’t help but recall the look on Bones’ face the first time he lost someone on a field mission: it was frightening, how broken his eyes had become, and I wished in that moment that he would never have to lose someone again.  

I knew it was futile.  Another private died in his arms not five minutes later.  

“Well, I’m turning in,” Scotty said after another hour or so, after we’d smoked out last C-ration cigarettes down to stubs.  

“Me too,” Chekov and Sulu said at the same time, and then grinned at each other like it was the best thing that had ever happened. 

“I’m gonna do the same,” Bones said, stretching.  “Ny, wake me up in two hours and I’ll take over.”  

“Good,” Uhura laughed, shoving lightly at his side.  “That communications equipment’s making my back sore.”  

“Do you want-” I began, intending to offer her a back rub, but she interrupted.  

“No.  You, Spock, tent.  Now.”  

“Jesus, excuse me,” I drawled, grinning at her and receiving a tiny, almost unnoticeable smirk in turn.  

“Have a good night, you two.  Oh, and it looks like it’s starting to rain,” she added, fumbling around in the dark for her jacket.  “We’ll take all the watches tonight, you guys get some rest.  Or, you know.”  

I raised my eyebrows at her.  “Be glad you have me as a Sergeant, ‘cause not all COs-”

“Jim,” Spock admonished, pulling me into the tent.  

I went, and we kissed long and soft until the rain was pounding like heartbeats on the steep sides of our tent and we finally mustered up our courage to keep going, even with our team members so close by.  I kissed down his torso, mapping out his muscles with my tongue, found them lean and tough with the strain of training and bivouac; licked the line of his neck up to the tip of his ear.  He shuddered, hands grasping at the bedrolls, trying to gain some purchase and I was about to pin them above his head when he moved, reversing our positions and pressing me into the ground.  

All the blood still remaining in my body rushed south and I couldn’t think, for a minute, beyond _Spock’s lips_ and _Spock’s hands_ as they traced shapes in my skin, scraping lightly over my hipbones.  He dove deeper, pulling my boxers down with only his teeth, finally _\- finally_ \- wrapping his perfect lips around my cock.  

“Spock,” I moaned, thrusting up into his obscenely hot mouth as I twisted one hand in his hair.  He hummed as he sucked, restraining my hips with one arm as his other hand rubbed and searched lower, lower, _lower_.  

And I won’t document what happened next, because it doesn’t matter how it occurred, or what we did, but that - well, if we were to die in the morning, I wouldn’t regret a single thing.  

(And when Spock came with my name on his lips, sounding like he was dying right there - I hoped, in that moment, that my last words would be his name, that it would sound like a prayer, as he said mine: reverent, safe on his lips and his tongue.  That he would be my dying thought as I went (at _last_ ) into that undiscovered country, because even if I don’t believe in God, I believe in him.  God, do I believe in him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... so close... to being done. So fucking close. I can practically taste it. My god this is taking me eighty seven years but you've all been such an amazing support and I just? Thank you. Thank you so goddamn much for everything.


	48. October 24, 1969

~~How am I supposed to  ~~

~~What do I tell  ~~

~~ The letter ~~

I think I’m drunk.  My cheeks have that sort of numb feeling like you get after having one too many drinks, and my fingers are slow at writing.  I find myself double-checking the syllables, making sure it all adds up, because even my legs feel like they weigh nothing.  All the pain that I’ve felt, you know, it’s like it’s gone, the phantom aches in the soles of my feet and my calves retreating back to the stars.  

What am I writing?  I’m not sure, anymore, but my thighs feel like I just ran ten miles and sat down for the first time.  

Does that even make sense?  Because my stomach churns like I’m a freshman with his first rum and coke, choking it down and hoping for some sort of release, listening to rock on the radio and wishing - _wishing_ \- the world would just go up in flames.  

And I see his blood, red like grenadine, red like the cherry at the bottom of a cocktail, red like the color of fresh Braeburn apples in the fall.  I feel it on my skin.  It’s oily and thick, like grenadine, rank (not like a cherry), like rust and salt and metal.  The sharp tang of iron on my teeth.  

It’s under my fingernails, and when I close my eyes I see his face, hear his laugh, see the joy that lit up his young, young eyes. 

So, I think I’m drunk.  I’ve not had this much liquor since I left AIT, and I’m okay with getting smashed out of my mind because there are others here, now, after everything.  But they didn’t see it, and so they don’t understand.  Am I even making sense?  I wonder if I’ll read this tomorrow and rip it out.  

The _click_ of the bomb rings like a clock in my head, like the worst sort of church tower that’s ever been put to use.  And I want to scream, want to smash that sound to bits under my boot but all that’s left is metal casing, is a trigger and some shrapnel and - 

Why am I in command?  I’m not fit for this.  Spock - 

I close my eyes as the world spins beneath me, feel the antigravity in my teeth, feel the rolling of my stomach, feel whiskey at the back of my throat.  Where are my cigarettes?  I could use one, right now.  I could use one to excuse the empty space in the tent with Sulu, the gaping hole in the fabric of the Enterprise team caused by lack of training and sleep and poor planning and a rice paddy and -

Sing me a song about Caledonia, sing me a song about still water, sing me a song about the mud and the trenches and the palms - 

(Wrong war.)

Sing me a song about death, about the passing of a boy that could have changed the world, whose mind was sharp and whose tongue cried for mercy.

Sing me a song about a man who called me Captain on faith, on pure, gut instinct.  

Sing me a song about taro leaves and jungle breezes and swift boats on the rivers.  Sing me a song about cages not big enough to hold a man comfortably, let alone two.  Sing me a song about M16s and how they feel against your palm, hot hot hot like the heart of a commie, hot hot hot and _alive._

Sing me a song about death, and don’t apologize, because you know death like you know the back of your hand, like an old familiar friend.  

 _Lay me down with my men, hey  
_ _Leave me where the sun will touch my skin  
_ _Pack with me a bottle of whiskey, one of gin  
_ _Dig me a grave that’s made of sin  
_ _Lay me next to my men, hey, next to my men_

 _Dig my grave shallow, so that I can feel it rain  
_ _Lay me where vines can take root in my veins  
_ _Tell me, why must you bury them there?  
_ _The rice is no place for a soldier, hey,  
_ _No place for a soldier_

 _And he ain’t six feet under  
_ _A flag draped over his chest  
_ _Nah, brother, nah  
_ _Holdin’ his rifle in his Sunday best,  
_ _Tell me, did he know what hit him, then?_

 _Lay me down with my men, hey  
_ _Take down my number and my rank  
_ _Lay me to bed with just my signature  
_ _To give proof to what I did there, hey  
_ _Give me those kills for what I did._

 _Dig my grave shallow, so that I can feel it rain  
_ _Lay me where vines can take root in my veins  
_ _Tell me, why must you bury them there?  
_ _The rice is no place for a solider, hey,  
_ _No place for a soldier._

 _Now we’re so far from home  
_ _We lost faith in our own footsteps  
_ _Take one step and hear it click, hear it sound  
_ _The devil’s sentenced you, you know  
_ _The devil himself sentenced you_

 _Lay me down with my men, hey  
_ _Take down my number and my rank  
_ _Lay me to bed with just my signature  
_ _To give proof to what I did there, hey  
_ _Give me those kills for what I did._

 _So what if he was just eighteen?  
_ _You pour out a shot for every soldier  
_ _Drink until sunrise, drink ’til dusk  
_ _Drink yourself into your grave,  
_ _Six feet under an American flag._

 _Dig my grave shallow, so that I can feel it rain  
_ _Lay me where vines can take root in my veins  
_ _Tell me, why must you bury them there?  
_ _The rice is no place for a soldier, hey,  
_ _No place for a soldier._

 _And there’s no body to recover,  
_ _There’s no mother here to mourn,  
_ _There’s no sister on my shoulder  
_ _Collect his garments as they’re shorn_

 _And there’s no service to remember  
_ _There’s no casket at which to kneel  
_ _Just a letter on stained paper  
_ _That we used our spit to seal._

 _Lay me down with my men, hey  
_ _Take down my number and my rank  
_ _Lay me to bed with just my signature  
_ _To give proof to what I did there, hey  
_ _Give me those kills for what I did._

 _And there’s no one left to mourn him  
_ _I wonder where he’s gone to now,  
_ _Drinking vodka up in heaven?  
_ _He’s complete under the galaxy  
_ _Complete under the stars._

 _Dig my grave shallow, so that I can feel it rain  
_ _Lay me where vines can take root in my veins  
_ _Tell me, why must you bury them there?  
_ _The rice is no place for a soldier, hey,  
_ _No place for a soldier._

 _He was only eighteen, Lord, so why’d you bite?  
_ _Take the men for a ride, and leave him tonight -  
_ _And make me understand, Lord,  
_ _What of that land mine?  
_ _How is a man meant to fight?_

 _Lay me down with my men, hey  
_ _Take down my number and my rank  
_ _Lay me to bed with just my signature  
_ _To give proof to what I did there, hey  
_ _Give me those kills for what I did._

 _And he ain’t six feet under  
_ _A flag draped over his chest  
_ _Nah, brother, nah  
_ _Holdin’ his rifle in his Sunday best,  
_ _Tell me, did he know what hit him, then?_

 _And there’s no one left to mourn him_  
 _We’re all drunk on whiskey rye_  
 _And he’s sewn himself back together_  
 _Piece by land-mined piece  
_ _Underneath the nighttime sky, hey -_

_We wait to see him in the nighttime sky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact i am currentl ydrunk while writing this mhm fun fun fun i feel kinda sick now imm ag o lie down n


	49. October 25, 1969

“What happened after you found their camp?”

I breathed deeply and gripped the arms of my chair a little bit harder.  “We mapped out the defenses and sent in Private Uhura to recon the area where we believed the captives were being kept.  She returned after approximately five hours with detailed information on the layout of the camp.”  

Pike scribbled something else on the paper in front of him and waved for me to continue.  

“After she returned with visual confirmation that the hostages were alive, we radioed ahead to let command know to bring in reinforcements so that we could storm the base and reclaim our soldiers.”

“That transmission occurred at approximately 1400 on October the 23rd?” 

“Yes, sir.  We retreated from the base to a secure location to await the arrival of the rest of the platoon, who came that night.  We then planned and executed a raid, effectively freeing the hostages.”

Pike paused.  “Tell me more about this land mine in your written report.”  

My throat closed up.  “Sir, Private Chekov accidentally detonated a land mine during the retreat.”  

“That’s all?” Pike asked, squinting.  “I was hoping you could shed more light on the situation, as our forces are trained in land mine detection and avoidance.”  

“Sir, much of our training was cut short during both Basic and AIT in the rush to deploy more troops,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but it wavered, and I could feel pinpricks at my eyes.  “The terrain was also rugged and it was dark.  There was no way Private Chekov could have detected the bomb.”  

“All right, Sergeant Kirk.  You’re free to go.”  

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and ducked out of the tent, grateful for the rain that was falling in sheets: something had to mask my tears.  

When we had reached the gook base and seen the condition of the men inside, the entire team had been filled with a sort of righteous fury - they were keeping our men in tiny cages, barely big enough for one where they had fit in two.  Uhura had pressed for a stealth op, but we had our orders, and we stuck to them.  

(If we hadn’t, would he still be dead?) 

I got back to the barracks to find the team inside, save Bones, who was dealing with injuries from the raid.  Sulu was staring glassy-eyed at Chekov’s bed, the corners still tucked in neat, like we’d had to do in training for inspection.  Scotty and Uhura were pressed against each other on Scotty’s bed, Uhura’s head on his chest, one of his hands in her hair.  He looked to be sleeping, but Uhura was wide awake, eyes open and unblinking.  

I closed the door behind me and crossed the small space to where Spock was sitting, ramrod-straight, on his bed, and I nudged him over so that I could fit beside him.  

“How did it go?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me as I turned my face into his shirt and let my tears seep into the cotton.  

“It was fine.  I have to - I have to write his mom-” my voice broke and I shuddered in embarrassment, pressing my face to his neck and breathing in the scent of his skin.  

“Yes,” Spock agreed, running a hand up and down my back.  I knew Spock wouldn’t break the same way as the rest of us had, but I also knew he wasn’t unaffected.  The tension in his muscles ran deep, and I was sure he was thinking of ways he could have stopped it, could have saved him (because I was, too). 

“Do you think we could have-”

“No,” Spock interrupted.  “Do not think that way.  There was nothing we could have done.”  

“Jim,” Uhura whispered from where she still lay on Scotty.  

“Yeah?” I asked, without letting go of Spock or even lifting my head.  

“I want another mission,” she said quietly.  “I want to get out there, and I want to kill - I want to destroy them.”  

Spock’s hands stilled on my back.  “Vengeance-”

“Is inappropriate, we know.”  We all looked up, startled - even Uhura, whose sudden motion woke Scotty, because Sulu was speaking for the first time in nearly two days.  “It’s inappropriate, and not a good reason, but god fucking damn it to I want vengeance.  Maybe if I kill a few of them, it’ll help me sleep better at night.”  

My blood stirred and I thought - yeah, maybe he had a point.  They took one of ours, so we would take ten of theirs.  I didn’t want to sit around, waiting for another assignment, thinking about what could’ve been done.  I wanted to make it right.  

“Hikaru, if we succumb to violence, we will be no better than the enemy,” Spock said quietly.  

Sulu’s posture broke, then, and he stood with his hands clenched into fists.  “Don’t you see, Spock?  Don’t you fucking see it?  We’re already just like them!  We’ve got no place left to go - they’ve taken everything from us!”  He laughed, and it was a manic, crazed sound.  “Everything!  Our dignity, the bodies of our dead, our autonomy!  We’re guns in the field, and that’s what we’ve been trained to be, and that’s what I want to be.  A damn effective gun, because I can’t begin to feel like this anymore - I can’t keep feeling like this.

“We’re all fucking soldiers, Spock.  We’re just fighting for different sides.  And I just lost a brother, and I want to get them back for that.  I’m not meant to want peace, and I don’t want it, now.”  He turned and left the building, slamming the door behind him, and a deep silence followed him out.  

“I agree with Sulu,” Uhura said quietly.  “I want them to pay for it.  For what they’ve done.”  

Scotty’s eyes wandered, lingered on Chekov’s bed, the picture of his family tacked to the wall of the barracks above the nonexistent headboard.  “Aye,” he concurred.  

And god, I wanted it too.  I wanted to put bullets into the heads of everyone affiliated with this damn war - not just the Viet Cong, but the Soviets, fucking Brass, the goddamn fucking president.  I wanted drugs, I wanted a binge so long I couldn’t remember my own name, but all I had was my anger and a warm gun.  

“Me too,” I said, and I felt Spock sag next to me.  “Spock?” 

“I am with you, Jim,” he said.  “As always.”  

I went to Pike.  I asked him for another mission, and he gave it unquestioningly, even though our squad was tiny, even though we’d just suffered a loss.  

“What is it?” I asked, taking the folder he handed me.  

“Recon mission just north of Pinkville,” he said.  “You’ll be traveling much of the way with another platoon from your battalion, and then you’ll split from the main body to map out the camp that’s stationed up there.  You will report back to the Staff Sergeant, and you will accompany the platoon as they take out the base.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and I left the tent.  

This time, he didn’t call after me to be safe.  He knew I had no intention of caution, nothing past my growing hatred of the entire institution, my desire to see the Viet Cong dead.  

Is this what makes a good soldier?  We play cards in our barracks for cigarettes but none of us find joy in it, because our ace is missing.  Uhura finds dope somewhere in the compound and we smoke it, but it doesn’t ease the pain.  I just want the next mission, the mindless feeling of a gun in my hand and Spock at my side.  

Is this what makes a good soldier?  Drive them until all they know anymore is drills, is bivouac and shooting practice, is the satisfaction of a clean kill.  Break them until they are wind-up toys that do your bidding, no questions asked.  And when it is done, when they have won the war or they have become too injured to do Uncle Sam’s work, send them home.  Send them home and tell them to go back to their old lives even though they left a piece of themselves overseas with each man that died, with each man they killed.  Send them home and say, “You served your country.  Thank you.”  

Send them home and say, “You served your country, because it’s your fucking responsibility.  Because you’re a goddamn American, and you’re free.”  

Send them home and do not say, “You’ll never be free again.” 


	50. October 28, 1969

Spock and I were on sentry duty outside south end of camp, well past nightfall and nearing 0300.  Since the territory to the south was solidly under our control and the borders were heavily fortified, we weren’t particularly concerned with warding off gooks in the shadows.  We had long since dropped to the forest floor, nursing muscles that were sore from drilling earlier in the day.  Since the mission our squad is being sent on is so high importance, we’re taking an extra few days to review some skills and weapons.  Land mines have come up one too many times to feel like a coincidence, and it hurts - the absence in our barracks is like a gaping wound that’s starting to fester.  Even Scotty, who’s usually a reliable source of comic relief, has all but stopped joking around.  

We need a mission.  We’re aimless without one.  

So we sat under taro leaves, trying to stay out of the omnipresent drizzle (and is the weather like this throughout Vietnam in October, or is it just this part?  Because this is pretty shitty, if I’m going to tell the truth), well out of sight from the nearest watchtowers, our fatigues making us near invisible in the night.  

“Jim,” Spock began, tentatively, after a little while.  “I maintain that you should reconsider your decision to send the squad back out.”  

I sighed, leaning my head back against the tree.  “Look, Spock.  I asked for a mission, they gave us one.  We go out, do our thing, come back, because that’s our job.  It’s why we’re here - to follow orders.”  

“Killing does not have to be the only option,” Spock said, shaking his head.  “These men have not stood trial.  We kill them, but we do not know why they began this war - if they really did deserve to die, in the end.”  

“Do you think Chekov got a trial?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low.  “Did anyone?  No, Spock - we kill, and we kill, and the only thing we can hope for is that we get to them before they get to us.”  

“Do you truly believe that?” Spock whispered.

I slumped.  “No.  I think - we should try to use diplomacy, and if that were to fail, then we’d come up with a third option.  I don’t think killing is how to win a war - but I think soldiers win wars.  Soldiers, and having bigger guns than the other guy.  And,” I added, pausing, “I don’t want to die, Spock.  I want to make it out of this alive, and move on with my life back in San Francisco.”  

“We are all afraid of death.”  

“I want to live, and I want to go home and I want you to come with me, if you’d have me, Spock,” I said, staring hard at my hands.  “I want us both to survive this, and if the only way I can do that is by killing as many gooks as I can, then fuck, that’s what I’m gonna do.”  

“I do not wish you to kill for me,” Spock said softly.  

“But I already have,” I protested.  “As you’ve done for me.  We’re both too far in it now, Spock, our hands are too red.  Maybe there’s no escape but to fight our way out, and hope that whatever comes out on the other side still resembles the men we once were, before all this happened.  Hope that something’s remained the same.”  

Silence fell between us for a few minutes, and then Spock said, “I would come with you.”  

“We could travel,” I said, nodding against his shoulder, where I’d rested my head.  “What have you always wanted to see?”

“I would like to see the world,” Spock said, smiling as he pressed a kiss to my hair.  “But I suppose we could begin with America.”  

“Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”

“Negative.”  

“Great, we’ll go there first,” I said, letting my lips brush over the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  “I’ve always wanted to see New York City.”  

“I believe you would like it,” Spock nodded.  “There are constantly things to do - I do not believe even you could be bored by such a metropolis.”  

“Okay, so NYC second, then.”  

“Although I am impartial to the cold, I have heard Alaska is stunning.”  

“America’s last frontier,” I murmured into his skin.  “Yeah, we could go to Alaska.  I’d like to see how cute you look in mukluks and a genuine Aleut parka, with fur all around the rim of your hood.”  He grimaced.  “Don’t give me that, it’d be adorable.”  

“Only for you,” Spock said, lips brushing my earlobe.  “I have heard that the artwork in Rome is quite remarkable.”  

“As long as we can sample some of the local fare,” I laughed; the image of Spock staring intently at St. Peter’s basilica, attempting to deconstruct its architecture with the sheer power of his mind, was amusing.  “We can quote Dante to pass the time.”  

“And where to, after that?” Spock hummed against my neck.  

“What if we took a boat?” I whispered.  “Just - got on a boat, and sailed?  Like the mariners used to, you know?  Go across the Atlantic, all the way to the Caribbean and the Gulf of Panama.  Or trace the Gold Coast, dock and travel inland like Dr. Livingstone.”  

“A ship,” Spock said, biting lightly at my clavicle.  “Our ship.  What would we name it?”

“Her,” I corrected automatically.  “Her name would be _Enterprise_.”  

“That is a good name,” Spock said, finally catching his lips in mine, and I lost all sense of the world around us to the drugging touch of his tongue, the sweet drag of his hand across my chest.  

Later, as I sat down to write this, I thought of what he said.  Did those men, all the ones that I’ve killed - did they really deserve to die?  How are we so quick, in war, to deal out death and judgement upon those we see as the enemy?  Would we not wish mercy on our own men?  

But for the first time since I knew I was coming overseas, I’m feeling hopeful.  I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to live through it all - live through it all with Spock, see birthdays and anniversaries (informal, of course), and watch our friends get married and have kids and be the weird queer uncles who live in that queer town.  What it would be like to live through the decades, grow old and wrinkled (or fat, god forbid) with Spock at my side.  I wonder now if we will get that chance.  If we deserve it.  

_‘The enemy? His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home. If he would not rather have stayed there in peace. War will make corpses of us all.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote, as I am sure you all know, is said by Samwise Gamgee in the Lord of the Rings :) I will be... writing sporadically, to say the least, the next few days or so. I'm at a music festival tomorrow and I will be bikepacking the San Juans T-Th, so I probably won't have very many updates up. I thought I could have it finished by the time I left but then Bumbershoot happened so that didn't exactly pan out the way I wanted it to. Anyways my eyes are itching and it's 12:30 and I need to sleep so thanks for all your support and love, you deserved this fluff and I bid you all good night :D


	51. October 30, 1969

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a brief mention of sexual assault in this chapter. It's not much different from what's already been said in other parts of this fic, but... just in case!

We are heading out with members of the 11th, and there’s some tension in the air I can’t quite place, like something’s tainting our company.  Most of our missions have been headed away from Pinkville, down to the southwest in particular, since that’s where a lot of activity has been the past few weeks.  We haven’t really gone any further north than brief scouting missions - really just perimeter checks to make sure everything around the base is secure.  

I can’t help but remember everything the guys said, about the people up in this area, about how much they hated American soldiers - and I wonder what happened to fuck up relations.  Because the thing is, they are really fucked up.  

I figured it would be more of the passivity we experienced on our trek up, and even in other parts of the country where we’ve had to stop and get supplies.  People aren’t excited to see us, but it seems like they also wouldn’t be too thrilled to see the fucking Viet Cong on their doorsteps either.  It seems to me that the bigger problems for these people aren’t on a national stage, but on the ground level, in the rice and the rain and the harvest.  In the fields and the yield given by roots dug in the soft earth outside low houses.  

We have passed through two small villages, now, on our way north to our drop point.  We’ve been greeted both times with hostile eyes and cautious bodies, clustered in the door frames of houses, or leaning tensely on tools.  Even the children look at us with suspicion as their mothers draw their small bodies inside, bringing them close.  And even though I know what men do in war, because I’ve seen it, it still makes me shudder to remember that I’m a part of this.  That it’s not just killing the other guys, it’s destroying their lives, their families.  

(But have they not already destroyed mine?) 

As we walked through the first village, I turned to Uhura, whose nose was pinched as she looked at the surrounding faces.  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” I murmured.

“No,” she said, lips forming a tight white line.  “No, it doesn’t.  I know a little bit of what it’s like to live in a war zone, watching men come in, guns strapped to their hips, and tell you exactly what you should be.  I know what it’s like for a man to hold you down and take you, the way so many soldiers feel is their right in war.  I know their fear.”  

“I’m sorry, lass,” Scotty said from where he walked beside her.  

Uhura shook her head.  “Don’t apologize.  I’m a survivor, and I don’t need your pity.”  

A squad of soldiers strayed out of their way over towards one of the front doors, and I started before seeing that their commander was with them.  Spock touched my elbow lightly, as if to remind me to stay back, know my place.  

“Hey, bitch, why don’t you give us a smile, huh?” 

“Hey, mama, how ‘bout it?” 

“Gentlemen,” the CO laughed (Vanderbelt? Van Dyke?), “come on, now.”  

“What, Sarge?  Guy can’t have a little fun?” 

They shifted their positions and I saw a Vietnamese woman hunched in the doorway, three young children clutching her legs.  

“Ah, fuck,” I hissed, taking another half-step forward before Scotty grasped my arm.  

“Jim, you cannae do anything about it,” he whispered.  “He’s a Staff Sergeant.  He outranks you - you’ll only get yourself in trouble.”  

“If they fucking _touch-_ ”

One of the men, who might’ve been named Peraski or Pazaski or something else Polish, strode over to a bucket that sat next to the house - probably designed to collect fresh rainwater - and tipped it onto the ground.  The woman made a strange sound, half-sob and half-scream, when another man (Smith?  Jones?) tipped over a bag of rice sitting right inside the door.  

Uhura was striding across the village yard before any of us were able to hold her back.  

“Ny!” Scotty protested, following her and trying to stop her but she shrugged out of his grip.  

“No,” she snarled, physically yanking the offending soldier out of the entryway to the house.  “What the hell are you doing?” 

“What, bitch, you wanna start something?” he laughed as the rest of the squad flanked him.  Scotty hovered uncertainly behind Uhura, then turned to the woman in the door, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder and helping her to right the bag.  

“No, Jones,” she said (so it _was_ Jones), “I’m just here to fucking remind you that they’re people, too, not animals you can just kick around.”  

Jones opened his mouth and the CO strode forward, took hold of his shoulder.  “Let’s go, Jones.  And you,” he added, stepping towards Uhura, “you watch your mouth around my soldiers.”  As he started to walk away, leading Jones with him, he turned to me and called out, “Hey, Kirk, keep your bitch on a leash!” 

Uhura shook her head, a tiny motion that I almost didn’t catch, and I bit back the retort I was about to make.  I said nothing, and I hate myself for it.  Our company didn’t talk much more for the rest of the day, just trudged on through the mud and the drizzle that started up in the late afternoon.   

Our company made camp just outside the second town we passed.  Some of the men talked about going and visiting the local women, seeing “what they had to offer”, and the entire thing made me feel sick.  Hands shaking, unable to eat even the meat cubes from my C-rations, I pulled out a cigarette.  After I had tried twice to light it (both times the match burning out because of the tremors in my fingers), Spock took the cigarette from me and lit it himself.  He took a drag, then passed it back.  I smiled.  

“You know, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a smoker.”

“It is a bad habit I fell into after my mother’s death,” Spock admitted.  “I am ashamed to say I underestimated their addictive properties.”  

“It happens,” I laughed, handing the cigarette back to him.  “I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen.  Bones is probably right - they’ll kill me someday, if this war doesn’t do the job first.”  

“I would recommend a game of chess, but I fear it may be too dark,” Spock said, passing me the stub.  

“Who says we can’t play it in our heads?” I asked, grinning.  

“I am uncertain that you have the cognitive-”

“Don’t you dare get started on my cognitive abilities, Spock,” I said, offering him a hand and helping him to his feet.  “I’m a genius, or so they tell me.”  

“I would not believe anything less of you,” Spock protested, and I had to resist physically dragging him into the tent and having my way with him.  

It was only later, much later, in the night that we heard it - screams, muffled yells, coming from about fifty feet away.  There was a muted shout, then what sounded like flesh hitting flesh, though I could only guess at the noise.  

“Spock,” I whispered, nosing at his chest.  His arms were wrapped around my body and his chin rested on the top of my head.  

“Yes?” 

“What is it about us?” I asked, though sleep was blurring my speech and fucking with my consonants.  “Is it in our nature?” 

“Some things are not in our control,” Spock said.  “That is not one of them.  We cannot know what these men did here, before, but we can ensure that none of our squad participates in such acts.”  

“You’re right,” I murmured.  “Where’s Bones?  Feel like I haven’t seen him all day.”  

“I believe he went with Scotty to obtain a refill,” Spock said.  Scotty had a small silver flask that he claimed had been passed down for generations that he kept well-stocked.  Ever since Chekov… well, it’d been empty more often than not.  

“Where do they get all these drugs and shit from?  No, wait, I don’t think I want to know.”  

“I am certain you would not,” Spock agreed, and I laughed, felt him respond in turn.  

“Back home, the leaves would be falling… the whole world turned red and gold,” I murmured.  “Halloween is tomorrow, you know that?  Caramel apples and candy corn and kids running wild in the streets.  Roasted pumpkin seeds, jack-o-lanterns.” 

“Autumn is beautiful in New York,” Spock said.  “The forests are sheets of orange flame against the sky.”  

“Tell me more.”

“My mother would make apple crisp, and the entire house would smell like cinnamon and cloves when I came home from school.  Her favorite dessert was pumpkin pie, although she only made it on very special occasions.”  

“That sounds amazing.”  

“It was,” Spock said, but there was no longing in his voice.  

“I miss the seasons, you know?  They used to give me a way to measure time.  I loved fall… the smell of decay on the breeze, the way the world went out in a blaze of glory and fell silent.  Life and death, how snowfall could come early to Iowa, hush the world with its chill.”

“In New York, the trees formed latticework, ice and snow mixing in their branches like a spiderweb.  It was so quiet, at our house.  Not like this.”  

Silence passed between us for a time, and I felt my limbs grow heavy with sleep.  “You know, Spock,” I said.  Hesitated.  “I’m glad you’re with me, you know that?”

Spock’s fingers carded through my hair.  “I do.  I am glad to have you as well, Jim.”  

I concentrated on the feeling of his fingers in my hair as I drifted off to sleep - a point of warmth amidst an ocean of cold, sparking fire in my flesh.     


	52. October 31, 1969

_How do you get so empty?  Who takes it out of you?_

Hold a grenade in your palm.  

It feels like a stone in your fingers, metal unyielding, cold, lifeless.  It is ridged, designed to be gripped, pulled, thrown, rolled.  

Hold a grenade in your palm.  It is a weapon designed to kill.  

How many have you thrown, in training?  How many have you locked into your belt, thrown in your pockets as you went out on a mission?  How many times have you crouched behind a fallen log, a taro plant, to throw one at the enemy?  How often do they strike?  How often do they kill?  

You know the feeling of a grenade in your palm, you know the sound it makes as it rends the air, the way your eardrums close off and sound ceases to carry - just for a second.  You know it like you know the feeling of the sun against your neck, flooded fields under your boots, a warm body pressed against your back, a hot gun in your hand, the sick smoke of napalm in the mornings.

 _The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes_  
 _The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes_  
 _Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,_  
 _Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,_  
 _Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,_  
 _Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,_  
 _And seeing that it was a soft October night,  
_ _Curled once about the house, and fell asleep._

Why does it feel foreign only now? 

You know, now, that there is no longer time for the yellow smoke that slides across the street, you don’t know if there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you’ll meet.

And in the night you might’ve heard her say, _Do I dare?_ and _Do I dare?_ When we lay on cots, too thin and creaking to rest our weary backs and the evening was spread out against the sky.  You might have heard her whisper to the air, _That is not it at all, That is not what I meant at all._  

You woke up next to Spock, wrapped in the warmth of his arms as the rain fell outside.  It was Halloween, and you laughed about it as you strapped your guns to your back, your grenades to your belt.  You felt them fit into your palm as you did so; you toyed with the pin as you did so; you smiled as you did so.  Spock smiled back at you, and you left camp to scout.  

It was routine, and you knew this.  You let your guard down.  You took your small squadron up to the enemy camp and you sent in Uhura to map out the defenses, like she had done before and again.  Like she had done the day that Chekov stepped on a land mine.  

You watched her return, sketchbook clutched in her right hand, deep shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, from every tear she hadn’t yet shed.  You watched a branch crack underneath her foot, felt it ring through the dense undergrowth like a gunshot.  

You moved.  

“Go, go, go!”  

Shots screamed out around you, peppering the trees where your team was just lying, sending up splashes of dirt where they hit the ground.  

“No, Jim!” she screamed as you ran towards her, hands wrapped around your gun, firing at the guard towers with Spock at your side.  “You gotta leave me!” she choked out and you saw the blood pooling on the ground from the wound in her thigh; it pulsed in time with her heart, and you think it cut through an artery but you couldn’t tell because there was red everywhere, there was blood on your palms and underneath your fingernails.  

“No, we’re gonna get you out of here,” Scotty said from your left and Bones was twenty feet away rushing to make a tourniquet from a piece of his undershirt.  If you could just get her out of the line of fire, if you could just get back to the jungle, Bones could fix her.  You knew it.  

“I can’t move my leg,” she choked, and you tried to pick her up but she shoved at your chest.  A bullet grazed your forehead.  “Spock, get them the fuck out of here!  You have to leave me behind!” 

“I’m not gonna let you die!” Scotty shouted, hoisting her up and wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders.  “Come on!” 

Another bullet found its mark in Uhura’s shoulder, and she crumpled.  You and Spock turned to return the fire, but you couldn't see them in the deepening shadows; they were ghosts, they were as immaterial as the night.  

“You have to go, Scotty!” she cried out, grasping for her gun and twisting her torso to fire off a few rounds.  

“We aren’t leaving you behind,” you said, and you lifted her and ran through the jungle, away from the fire, back to where Bones lay with the tourniquet and his field medicine.  

“Jim, you have to keep moving - they’re gonna be right behind us-” Uhura began, wracking coughs cutting off the rest of her sentence and you saw blood trickling from her lips.  

You were losing her.  

“We can carry you,” you said as Bones tried to stem the flow of blood.  

“Jim, the bullet pierced her femoral artery-”

“Find a fucking way to save her, Bones!” you shouted, helping her to her feet, taking as much of her weight as you could.  Vietnamese voices sounded behind you and Spock fired intermittently into the bush; you heard a body thud to the ground barely seventy feet away.  

“Fuck!” Sulu shouted as a bullet lodged in the tree next to him.  “Jim, we gotta get out of here!”

“I know, Sulu, we just have to-”

A click, a thud not five feet behind you and you knew, even before Sulu called out a warning, what had landed there.  

“Grenade!” Sulu screamed, diving into the undergrowth but it was too late for you and you moved to dive on top of the weapon but someone was already there -

“Jim, _move_!” Spock’s voice, confusion and darkness and then - 

Silence.  

You were running, running through the forest and you didn’t know where Uhura was but you think you could guess.  

And when you finally paused for breath, after everything, and you saw the look in Bones’ eyes, you knew.  You knew.  

“She’s dead, Jim.”  

 _And would it have been worth it, after all?_  
 _Would it have been worth while,_  
 _After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets_  
 _After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—  
_ _And this, and so much more?—_

You remember June 29.  You wrote it down in your journal, and you’re glad you did, now.  You remember her words: 

“I’m going to survive it.  And when I come back, I’ll go to school on the GI bill, for linguistics.  I’ll live the life I’ve wanted, because I’ll have fought for my country, and I’ll have survived.”

_It is impossible to say just what I mean!_

And you wish to see her, after all, you want to hear her voice in the mess and our barracks and outside our tent at night.  You keep thinking she will stumble out of the jungle, half-dead but still clinging to life with the same sort of tenacity she’d always had.  And how could someone like her go so easily?  After everything, how could you stand there and watch her fling herself - watch her sacrifice - 

Oh, but you are formulated, sprawling on a pin, you are pinned and wriggling on the wall.  

_Do I dare?_

You sit outside your tent and watch the stars pass by; you took Uhura’s notebook from her blood-stained hands because she shoved it at you as she passed, you handed it to your Commander and you haven’t been able to wash your hands.  You keep looking, as if the moonlight could wash it away.  Spock sits with you in silence, and Bones is on your other side.  Scotty passed out hours ago, a bottle empty across his chest, Sulu curled up at his side.  You know how death feels, and it feels like Chekov, it feels like this - a yawning chasm in your chest, a deep emptiness that cannot be filled.  Like something inside of you has been carved out and replaced by gunpowder, by lead.  

 _For I have known them all already, known them all_  
 _Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,_  
 _I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,_  
 _I know the voices dying with a dying fall_  
 _Beneath the music from a farther room.  
_ _So how should I presume?_

“I could have saved her,” Bones says, and you look at him with muscles that do not want to function.  “If we’d only been able to get her back, I could have saved her.  The shoulder wound wasn’t life-threatening, and if I could’ve staunched the blood flow from the leg wound, if I’d had the equipment… Jim, I could’ve saved her.” 

“You did everything you could,” you say, and you clap him on the shoulder.  “We were too far out, Bones.  She was dead anyways.”  

“I could’ve saved her, Jim!” he spits, and you lean back at his anger, his frustration, his helplessness.  “I could’ve-” he stands and walks away, storms into the tent where Scotty and Sulu are recovering.  

“If I hadn’t sent her out,” you say, “she never would’ve been there in the first place.  She never would’ve been shot.  If I had just - listened to you, and not asked for this mission, Spock-”

“You cannot change the past, Jim,” Spock says, grasping your hand to lift you to your feet and guide you inside the tent.  “You were not responsible for Uhura’s death, as you were not responsible for Chekov’s.  There was nothing you could have done.”

“I could have died, instead of them,” you murmur.  “I was going to jump on the grenade, Spock.  She got there first, but if I’d have moved faster, it would’ve been me.”  

 _I should have been a pair of ragged claws  
_ _Scuttling across the floors of silent seas._

“You cannot bring them back,” Spock whispers, and his words are swallowed by the darkness.  “Nyota would not have wanted us to mourn, but to continue fighting.”  

 _And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!_  
 _Smoothed by long fingers,_  
 _Asleep … tired … or it malingers,  
_ _Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me._

“I can still feel her blood beneath my hands.  I hear her in the wind, Spock, in the breeze that rustles the trees.”  

“As do I, Jim.”  

“Do you think that ever goes away?”

“I do not know.  But Jim,” Spock adds, “we are due to march out tomorrow.  We will make them pay for what they took from us.”  

And in the night you might’ve heard her say, _Do I dare?_ and _Do I dare?_ When we lay on cots, too thin and creaking to rest our weary backs and the evening was spread out against the sky.  You might have heard her whisper to the air, _Do I dare disturb the universe?_

Hold a grenade in your palm.  

Taste the blood under your fingernails.  

Why do you weep only now? 

 _No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;_  
 _Am an attendant lord, one that will do_  
 _To swell a progress, start a scene or two,_  
 _Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,_  
 _Deferential, glad to be of use,_  
 _Politic, cautious, and meticulous;_  
 _Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;_  
 _At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—  
_ _Almost, at times, the Fool._

 _I grow old … I grow old …_  
 _I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled._  
 _Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?_  
 _I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach  
_ _I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each._

_I do not think that they will sing to me._

_I have seen them riding seaward on the waves  
_ _Combing the white hair of the waves blown back  
_ _When the wind blows the water white and black._

 _We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  
_ _By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown  
_ _Till human voices wake us, and we drown._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never read T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' in its entirety, you should go do so! It's probably my favorite poem ever.


	53. November 2, 1969

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter for suicidal thoughts: if that's bad for you, please read with caution and stay safe!

Count off - 

_One, two, three, four_

Heart beats in time - 

_Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud_

How does it keep going? 

_Move your feet, boys!_

Two missions, two drum beats, three heart beats

_Feel them in your chest, in time with the feet on the earth of the compound_

“Jim?” 

_You open your mouth to answer but there’s no sound, there’s just the count off_

“One, two, three, four”

 _Heart beats in time_ - 

“Jim, I know he meant-”

_You’re screaming inside and there’s pain that won’t stop_

“Shut up.” 

_Blood on your hands and your arms and your neck, thump-thud, three heart beats_

“Jim, you can’t keep living like this-”

_It’s underneath your fingernails it’s in the lines of your palm_

“You don’t get to tell me how to live.” 

_Was it always like this?_

“The team needs you, Jim.”

_Rushed gasps and blood bubbling at lips on a too-pale face_

“There’s no team anymore.”  

_Let us go then, you and I_

“There is, Jim.  We’re here.”  

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

Empty cots and you watch them turn red, red

_Like a patient etherized upon a table_

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

_Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood_

“None of us do.” 

_Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather_

“You don’t fucking get it.  You don’t fucking understand.” 

_The multitudinous seas incarnadine,_

“Jim, it’s not your fault.” 

_Making the green one red._

“Not my fucking fault?  How is it not my fucking fault?” 

_Play it over in your head, one two three four thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud move your feet boys!_

“It was his choice, Jim.  It was his choice in the end.”  

_Three heartbeats, two missions and you went in M16 blazing thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud_

“It was headed for me, it should’ve hit _me_!” 

_Run out of the darkness like a ghost, you run and you hear your heart go behind you, you hear him behind you_

“But it didn’t, because he took it for you.” 

_You are a unit, you are a force, you are fine tuned dance and a chess game between two masters, you are dark and light and chaos and reason and count off now one two three four_

“Go away.” 

_Thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud you bust in and your gun is warm in your hand and you’ve won, the helicopters come to take away the injured but you’ve missed a spot, you’ve missed a spot of blood on your hands_

“I can’t do that, Jim.  Not when - you gotta give me those.” 

_Jim, watch out! Called across the yard and then he’s in front of you and there’s a thud, like thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud except wet and slick and exhaled gasps of air_

“Why?” 

_No no no no no no no no no no not him not him anyone but him anyone but him get back get back get back_

“Because - Jim.  I need you to hand me the pills.”  

_You watch the blood run from his mouth and you know there’s a chopper nearby but you can’t believe he did that you can’t believe he did that and his lips are red, red, red like grenadine and his blood flows out like gladiolus in water and you feel it on your skin, slick like grenadine slick like oil, rank (not like a cherry) and you are burning_

“I don’t want to feel this anymore, Bones.”  

_No no no no you need his lips you need everything and you never had the time (count off one two three four thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud in your chest) you lean down as he gasps for breath and Bones is trying to pull you away because they need to take him from you, the chopper needs to take him from you_

“There’s nothing that’s going to make it better, Jim.  What would you say to someone else, goin’ through the same thing you are now?” 

_No no no no no you whisper and he grasps at your jacket and there’s blood there now there’s blood over your heart and he says to you - he says -_

“It’s not-”

_Jim -_

“What would you say?” 

_Good-bye._

“I’d tell them to give me the goddamn pills.”  

_No no no thump-thud thump-thud thump-thud against your hands and he is still breathing as they take him away he is still breathing and his face is pale but he is still alive and you can hear his heartbeat echoed in yours, count off - one, two, three, four_

“Give me the goddamn pills, Jim.”  

_The world is empty and you are burning, you are a California wildfire without a storm, without the sea, without deep clouds and rain, you are the sun and you burn, you are fusion and you crackle and snap like electricity, like a lightning bug_

“Yeah.  Yeah.”  

_What is chaos without reason?  What is dark without light?  You burn, you are the birth and death of a star._

“So what’s the plan, Cap?”

_You know that, if you’d had the opportunity, you could have been something great. You know that, if you had the time, you might – maybe, if you were very, very lucky – even have gotten to be something good._

“I want to fucking kill them.”  

_What if we took a boat?_

_I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
 _And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;_  
 _And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,  
_ _And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,_

_I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide_  
 _Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;_  
 _And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,  
_ _And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying._

_I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,_  
 _To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;_  
 _And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,  
_ _And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over._

_Her name would be_ Enterprise _._

“I want to fucking kill them all.” 


	54. November 6, 1969

I don’t mean to come back.  

There are some journeys from which you return; then there are those where you’re so irrevocably changed that you can’t imagine ever coming back from it - from the hurt and the pain.  Like there are thousands of needles embedded in your marrow, and how could you remove them?  Only by turning yourself inside-out, baring everything and cutting yourself apart and hoping you can sew it all back together.  

I don’t know if that makes sense.  I know that my world is gray, that the singing of the birds doesn’t even give me joy.  That the rain stopped yesterday and I wanted it to return because the sun was too painful to look at.  I know that it shouldn’t matter this much.  That we only knew each other for a bare few months - and how could you love so deep in so little time?  I thought that I would feel it, when he died - that I would feel a part of me die with him.  I thought it might feel like the snapping of a rope, or like a gravedigger, carving out a hole in my chest with his spade.

But there is something in the turning of the season, although the seasons do not turn here, in the jungle.  There is no autumn flame or winter snow, but it’s driven somewhere in my bones and so when I wake to flame on the horizon I fool myself, for just a second, into thinking I’m back in the States, back home.  I can fool myself into thinking it never happened, that I’m still kneeling out in the soft earth of Yosemite, my father’s watch buried at my feet.  

And would I rather it never happened?  Would I rather have never meet him - never met any of them?  Chekov, so full of life and hope and promise, Uhura, who defied legions of men to make it this far?  

Spock? 

I am consumed with rage - it flows through my veins like poison, burning as it goes until I feel nothing.  I think of killing the man who did this to Spock, to me, and I don’t shake.  All this time, I’ve felt like I’ve been clinging to the edge of a cliff, and my tether has finally snapped.  

Is this what makes a good soldier?  

I want to be strong, to lead my team out of this alive, to live to see the end of our tour.  I know it’s what a good Sergeant would do.  It’s what a good Captain would do.  It’s what a good man would do.  

Problem is, I’ve never been a good man.  

(How can some live to see two tours, and others not live to see two months?  It’s not fair -)

I keep seeing him, in my head, wrapped in a body bag in some destitute morgue somewhere, a bullet hole like a cavity in his chest.  He haunts me, lurks in the corners of my vision; I think I see him sitting on his bed, but when I turn, he isn’t there.  It’s just air, and a sense memory of how his lips felt pressed against mine.  

_It’s a no-win scenario, Pike.  I go over, I don’t come back, or I come back with gooks in the shadows._

I thought I could find a third option - I thought we could make it.  See America, see Rome, see fucking Everest.  Meet up with the other members of Team Enterprise for a drink, every once in a while.  I thought we could endure.  

I realize now that we weren’t meant to.  It wasn’t in our stars.  

Some people can go, come back, live through the nightmares while their wife sleeps safe in their arms.  But what do you do when you’ve left the other half of yourself behind, all the way across the Pacific?  How do you go on?  How do you continue, knowing that you’ll never again see the one you -

I loved him.  I loved him with everything I had, without reason or restraint.  He was my friend, brother, lover.  He was everything.  

So no, Bones, I won’t kill myself, but I’m not going to try and stop someone else from killing me first.  I’ll give everything I have to battle, and be damned if I don’t make it out alive.  I’ll wait for a bullet to hit its mark, and when it does, I know I’ll be going to see him again.  I know he’ll be waiting for me in whatever heaven there is, because I don’t want to be separated from him, even in death.  

Should I pray to God?  Should I confess my sins, once more, before I go?  I think not.  He doesn’t want to hear my confession.  So I make these pages my confessional, and I hereby inscribe my sins.  Everything I’ve done, all the death and the blood and the longing, here in these words.  Take it, God.  Take it and cast me out, but know that I loved, before I died.  Know that. 

So I don’t mean to come back.  And Bones, if you ever find this, know that there was nothing you could’ve done.  Know that I loved you like a brother, and that I want you to get out and live a full, happy life, without worrying about me.  Know that I was tired - so, so, tired, and that it was finally time for me to sleep.  Know that I go into whatever’s next - that undiscovered country - with open arms, and I’ll find Spock there.  

Be happy, Bones.  Sulu, follow your dreams, and don’t let the shadows get to you.  And Scotty, don’t dwell on what you can’t change, but keep fighting.  For her.  She would have wanted the world for you.  

So goodbye, Enterprise.  I won’t be writing anymore in this journal, but I hope one of you finds it, after everything.  I hope you read this and know that it wasn’t your fault, that I want you to keep fighting, that I want you to survive where I couldn’t.  I loved you all like you were my brothers, and I would have followed you to the ends of the universe, but I’m directionless without my compass to guide me.  And he was flown back to Saigon two days ago, probably dead before they even reached the hospital. After all, what’s an astronomer without their telescope?  What’s a Captain without his First?  

Be safe, and I’ll see you when it’s all over - my fearful trip is almost done.  


	55. 'Cause I'm Going Down (Interlude)

A man pulls a black leather journal out of the top drawer of his desk.  He has not looked at it since he found it, lying underneath Jim Kirk’s cot on the twelfth of November, when he read the first entry, and set it aside.  It wasn’t the right time, he’d told himself.  The camp had just been evacuated, the dust was still settling.  It wasn’t the right time.  The wounds were still to close, too raw.  

He reads it, now.  He reads every word, and when he’s done, he picks up a pen.  

He picks up a pen, and begins to write.  


	56. November 11, 1983

This isn’t my story.  Which should be obvious, if you’ve read any of it, because this is the story of James Tiberius Kirk, Sergeant in the US Army, who died in combat on November 11, 1969.  

This isn’t my story, but I’m a part of it - Major Leonard “Bones” McCoy, US Army Surgeon, Field Medic for the squadron assigned to James T. Kirk at the time of his death.  I was his battle buddy during Basic Training, and I was his best friend.  

Jim never told any of us about this journal, and it sounds like he successfully kept it secret from everyone except Uhura (which doesn’t surprise me, because if anyone on that crew was a damn detective, it was that woman).  

I don’t have much to write here, but Jim didn’t just tell his story, he told all of ours, so I thought it was important for someone to record how he died.  

The humble idiot also undersold how important he was to the basic functions of Enterprise, so I thought I’d clear up that point, too.  

The best way I can describe Jim was that he was our one common factor.  It was Jim that recognized the potential in each of us - even Chekov and Sulu, who might’ve been passed over for major jobs in another unit.  Jim had a gift of bringing out the best in everyone, and he used that skill to great effect as a commanding officer.  And Jim - for all his talk of not being a good man - was so good that he made all of us want to be better.  You couldn’t help but want to stand up a bit straighter when you stood at his side, because - like the sun - he brought warmth, and a strong presence.  He was steady, reliable, dependable.  For Jim Kirk, that was a constant, until Spock died.  

To see them interact was like watching two elements collide and form something greater than the sum of their parts.  I still remember watching Jim and Spock fight for the first time, and thinking that it almost seemed goddmaned choreographed.  

The two of them formed a command team that couldn’t be beat, in my opinion, throughout the whole army.  I’ve never seen two men work together like they did, and I don’t think I ever will again.  It was only later that we found out about their relationship, and at that point it didn’t even seem to matter - they were so entwined it made sense.  

But I’m writing in this journal to complete the story of James T. Kirk, and that’s what I’m gonna do.  It’s been fourteen years to the day, and I think I’m finally able to talk about it.  

We were give another mission just days after Spock’s death, even though Jim was still glassy-eyed and I caught him staring at his rifle, or Sulu’s pain pills, more than once.  The parameters were strikingly similar to the one where we lost Uhura and Spock, but if Jim noticed, he didn’t give any sort of indication.  He spent most of the day staring at Spock’s bed, looking like every widow I’d ever had the displeasure of talking to down at the hospital in Georgia.  We were part of a larger platoon and they didn’t expect us to scout out the enemy camp, just accompany the battalion for extra firepower.  None of us cared, and I worried - worried that he’d do something stupid out there, that I’d have to live with another death I could’ve prevented.  

I shared a tent with him, tried to get him to eat, or sleep, but he turned me down, just said that he couldn’t.  

“I’d throw it up,” he said, when I shoved my C-ration meat into his hands.  “You take it.  I got my cigarettes.”

“Those are appetite suppressants, Jim,” I told him, trying to tear the cigarette from his mouth.  “You have to eat something, or you’re gonna starve.”  

“I don’t care, Bones,” he said, leaning back against a palm and closing his eyes.  There were deep purple shadows underneath them, stretching down towards his cheeks, and I thought I could guess at why.  

“I can get you something that’ll help you sleep, Jim,” I offered, but he shook his head.  

“I can’t sleep, doesn’t matter what I do.  I see him everywhere.”  

“You’ve got to let me help,” I said, but he refused, and I wasn’t about to push medication onto him if he didn’t want it.  

When the scouting party returned on the 8th, the commanders gathered in the main camp to discuss strategy.  I was with the medics, so I wasn’t able to hear too much of the planning, but when we set out the next day, I made sure I was at Jim’s side.  

It didn’t end up mattering much, in the end.  Kid was always too damn stupid to recognize trouble, and he’d gotten himself in it deep.  

All it took was two bullet wounds, one to the chest and the other to his liver, and I knew.  I just knew.  

I remember crying something, probably his name, as I bent down to pull him out of the way behind a tree with leaves so big they could shield a full-grown man.

“Hey, Jim, you stay with me now,” I said, pressing my hands to the wounds, trying to stop the bleeding while calling attention over to us, signaling that we needed transportation.  

He gasped and I watched as a bubble of blood popped at his lips: the bullet had punctured his lung.  “Hey, Bones,” he whispered, and his hand scrabbled at my chest before falling limp beside him.  

“Don’t you dare give up on me, Jim, _fuck_!” Blood seeped between my fingers as he let out a wracking cough, and his hand came up again, found my shirt, latched on.  

“I just - I wanted to say…” he choked, and I gripped his shoulder, letting go of the wounds and pressing my other hand to his face. 

“No, Jim, don’t you dare say good-bye, don’t you dare,” I shouted, and I felt a bullet whiz by my shoulder, lodging in the jungle behind us.  

“Not… gonna…” Jim said, and I lifted his head so he could breathe better as his blood seeped into my fatigues.  (I still have those fatigues.  Kept them, even left the blood on them.) 

“Don’t talk, you don’t-”

“You can’t save me, Bones,” he coughed.  “That’s okay.”  

“It damn well is _not_ okay, you idiot, now stay _still-_ ”

“Hey, shut up, I’m trying to-” he wheezed, fingers tightening, “-tell you something.”  

“What, Jim?  What is it?” 

“You gotta… get out… okay?” he said, and his voice grew weaker each second.  “Get back to… Georgia.  See your baby girl…” 

“I will, Jim,” I promised, bringing our foreheads together.  

He shook his head, but he was so weak I wouldn’t have been able to see it were I not pressed against him.  “I know what it’s like… to grow up… without a father…” 

“I know,” I whispered.  

“You gotta promise,” he said, eyes fluttering, and his grip was weakening on my shirt.  “Please, Bones.  Promise me.” 

“I promise, Jim, but you have to - you have to hold on-”

“No more… time…” Jim gasped.  “Bones… tell Spock-”

“He’s dead, Jim,” I reminded gently, brushing the hair back from his forehead.  

“Tell Spock…” Jim protested, blood dripping in earnest now from his lips.  “Tell Spock…” 

“What, Jim?” I asked, shaking him a bit, “What?” 

He rattled in one more breath, eyes sliding shut, and exhaled for the last time.  

I agonized over that for weeks: tell Spock… what?  Spock was dead, and Jim knew that, Jim had known that for over a week.  

That night, Scotty sat up in our small tent, cleared his throat, and recited a poem.  I still remember it, to this day: the way his throat cracked on the words, how the air was rich with the smell of whiskey rye and Sulu’s eyes were red-rimmed:

_O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,_  
 _The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,_  
 _The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_  
 _While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;_  
 _But O heart! heart! heart!_  
 _O the bleeding drops of red,_  
 _Where on the deck my Captain lies,  
_ _Fallen cold and dead._

_O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;_  
 _Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,_  
 _For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,_  
 _For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;_  
 _Here Captain! dear father!_  
 _The arm beneath your head!_  
 _It is some dream that on the deck,  
_ _You’ve fallen cold and dead._

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,_  
 _My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,_  
 _The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,_  
 _From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;_  
 _Exult O shores, and ring O bells!_  
 _But I with mournful tread,_  
 _Walk the deck my Captain lies,  
_ _Fallen cold and dead._

James Tiberius Kirk died in my arms, and two weeks later, I received a letter from a hospital in Saigon.  

 

Spock was alive.  


	57. July 20, 2014

Dear Jim,

 

When Dr. McCoy recovered your journal, I was comatose in a military hospital in Saigon.  You believed I was consigned to death.  It was a fair assumption, given it was the Doctor’s initial prognosis, and for that, I cannot fault you.  

Unfortunately, due to the war, I lost all contact with the surviving members of Team Enterprise until 1984, when Leonard knocked on my front door.  I had recently purchased a house in San Francisco, and I did not anticipate the ability of former acquaintances to determine my whereabouts.  Despite my father’s willingness to reconnect after the war (in part, I believe, due to my Purple Heart), I had decided to remain off the grid.  

It was raining that day, and as I opened the door to such a familiar face I thought back to all those years ago, when you had entered our small barracks with what would be our second to last mission in a tour that should have lasted much longer than it did.  I will never understand their willingness to task us with something so difficult.  I know you did not see it at the time, but I believe that Chekov may have been on to something with what he said that day - that, despite the experience of other teams, we had something they did not.  

We had you, Jim.  You were the sun, and we were mere satellites.  But I reflect on it now and realize - you could not have known.  You could not have known your own gravity.  But I am losing focus of what matters.  That happens often, nowadays, as my mind tends to wander.  

Leonard brought with him a black leather-bound journal, and I made him tea as he told me his story - returning to the barracks, to our abandoned camp outside of My Lai.  (I am glad, in a way, that you did not learn to live of the massacre that had occurred there in 1968.  You had already endured so much.)  He told me the story of how he found your words, penned in water stained shorthand on crinkled pages.  He told me that he had filled in what he knew, between your final entry and your final moments.  

“It doesn’t belong to me,” he said when I insisted he keep it.  

“You were his closest friend, Leonard,” I remember protesting, but he shoved the book into my hands without looking at my face.  

“Maybe I was his closest friend, Spock, but you meant more to him than anyone else on our squad.  And you - you deserve to have this.  His story might be over, but there are still pages left to be filled.”  

I took the journal, Jim.  I was certain you meant to keep it secret, and I locked it in the top drawer of my desk, placed it out of sight because I could not bear to think about you in that way.  I could not bear to look at your words - I had not seen you die, and so I could continue to believe, if just for a moment, that you were alive.  That you were breathing and existing somewhere in this world, even if it was not at my side.  I could not read your personal thoughts, violating your privacy, simply because you were buried six feet under the earth in Arlington with a flag draped across your chest.  

And I continued living.  There were others, over the years - of course there were.  Your absence left a chasm in my chest, a deep well of loneliness, and I tried desperately to fill it, but I could never settle.  I would wake to dreams of your cheeks, your lips, and I would feel guilt settle in my stomach, low and cold like stone.  I know you would wish me to be happy, Jim, but I ask you - could you have gone on?  Could you have learned to love someone else, when half of your soul was missing?  

Perhaps you could.  Perhaps you were always a better man than me, but we will never know, for I was the one who survived.  It is curious, that you were the one to die.  Your resilience, your absolute stubbornness and insistence at clinging to life, almost made me believe in luck.  But that was it, was it not?  The stars burned in your eyes, a galaxy of possibilities stretched out at your fingertips.  Always ready to forge your own solution.  You used to say that you did not believe in no-win scenarios, and I often wish you had remembered that, before charging into the fray, your gun hot in your hand.  

If you had done so, would you still be alive?  

It is these possibilities that haunted me, you see, and of course this is why I could not read your journal.  But as the years wore on, as my body deteriorated with every passing day, I began to wonder what was documented in your words.  What secrets, insights, your thoughts might hold.  I reconnected with the surviving members of our Team Enterprise, and we meet in San Francisco each year and toast to Uhura, Chekov, Scotty, and you.  Scotty died a year after the incident in a night raid; Sulu passed away four years ago from lung cancer.  Doctor McCoy’s heart gave out in his sleep.  His funeral was two months ago, and such a large crowd attended I was incapable of counting them all.  He saved so many lives during his life, affected so many people.  

Suddenly, Jim, I felt so very alone.

It was selfishness that drove me to unlocking the bottom drawer of my desk, to settling down on my leather sofa with a cup of spice tea in my hand.  If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine your weight next to mine, your thigh pressed up against my own, your light laughter in my ear.  

Jim, I am glad I did not read it sooner, for I fear it would have broken me.  We were all fragile upon return, shepherded to counselors that were just beginning to perfect their craft, turning all too often to drugs or alcohol to soothe the ache.  I had pieced my soul back together with your image as my guide. 

Even now, I find myself asking - what if we had been born in a different time?  What if we had never been forced to be soldiers?  What did they turn us into - could we have been more?  

The government has recently repealed their law on gay people serving in the military.  I attended the rallies, old man though I am, because I wonder what we might have been, had society not forced us to pretend to be something we were not.  

I asked you, once, if you thought the world was too small.  You told me that some people are too big for this world, but you did not include yourself amongst their kind.  I have read your innermost thoughts, have seen you bare your soul, and I have come to the conclusion that you were wrong.  

You said that most people were content to stare at the earth, to till their fields and sow their crops until they were buried in the same soil that gave them life.  _Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of earth we make loam—and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer barrel?_

I asked you, once, if you believed in fate.  You told me that “shit happens.”  You turned the question back on me, and I found I did not have a good answer.  I said we each have a first, best destiny, and you asked me if this was ours. 

I know now that we did not deserve this fate, as surely as I knew it then.  But I also know that this was not our first, best destiny.  I have long wondered what yours was, but I know that mine was to be by your side, in whatever capacity.  I know that I have failed you, and that I have waited many years to rectify the issue.  I know that I must wait a bit longer, before I can hope to see you again.  

But I have found myself wondering what we might have been, in that life that is our first, best destiny.  What would we have been, Jim?  Would we have been good men?  And I wonder - would we have found each other?  

If my fate is to be by your side, I believe I would find you.  Given any universe, any permutation of chances, of choices, I would find you, and I would not let you go.  You could be a teacher, a priest, a killer, and I would stand by you.  

But I do not believe you belong in those places, as those people, in those times.  I am struck by something you wrote, back before we had ever met, back before the moon landing and decades before the first shuttle landed on Mars.  On June 8th, 1969, you wrote about a meteor shower - I remember this passage in particular because I watched it, too.  

You hoped, as Kennedy did, for a different future.  One where the space - the final frontier - would be a realm of peace, of exploration.  A vast stretch of undiscovered country that we could see as not something to exploit, but something to venture into for the sake of the new worlds and new civilizations that could be found amongst the countless stars.  You wrote, _Give it two, three hundred years, and I’d bet every penny to my name that there’s going to be some sap wandering the stars with the same romantic ideals, the same delusions of galactic peace._

After too many decades to count, Jim, I finally know the place where you belong.  All you ever wanted was to taste stardust on your tongue, because you are too big for this earth.  You once called me Star-Splitter, and you were right, for the Star-Splitter is a telescope, a means by which to examine the cosmos.  And I would be there, for you, as your companion, as your partner, as we traveled the galaxy - because in the end, you are Brad McLaughlin.  You are the man who would burn down his house just so that he could see the stars.  

I would like to think that our family would be there, too - that we were destined for something greater than what we were given.  We might have sailed the stars, like the mariners of old.  With you as our Captain, we could have endured any hardship, any struggle.  We would not only have been something great, but something truly good.  

But soon, Jim, I will follow you over waves of glass to that green shore where the sun is swift to rise.  And perhaps, if I am lucky, you will be there to greet me at the dock, a smile on your face and a compass in your hand.  

I would not mind traveling with you, Jim, as our journey ended before it ever had a chance to begin.  And, if I am being honest, it is not the destination that matters, as much as it is the journey to get there.  I would like that second chance with you.  

Perhaps the stars will be kind to us, but I do not know - _I don’t know anything with certainty, but seeing the stars makes me dream._

I will see you soon, Jim.  Until then - I love you.  I have always loved you.  And that is no different from the way it ever stood.  

 

Love,

Your Star-Splitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... that was a bit of a journey. thanks so much for sticking through it with me. y'all are really really amazing readers, and all the support and love you gave me was amazing. thank you so much! this was my first au i've ever written and it may very well be my last, it was pretty exhausting and extraordinarily nerve-wracking for me. any kudos/kind comments you wanted to leave would be sososo appreciated. i poured my heart and soul into this one, and it means a lot to me! you can come cry about space husbands with me on tumblr at tthylas :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all <3


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